


there is nothing lost (but may be found, if sought)

by branwyn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gossip, Legends, PTSD, Past Abuse, Protectiveness, Rape Reference, Sansa/Agency, Slow Burn, Suicidality, abortion mentions, age difference (no underage)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-29 16:44:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 69,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10858011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: One night shortly after his arrival in King's Landing Oberyn is approached in the gardens by a stranger, hooded and cloaked. When she asks him to help her die, he takes her back to Dorne instead. Taking her to safety is easy enough; keeping her safe is a different matter.





	1. Chapter 1

_Doran_

In Sunspear, Prince Doran’s spies reported the tale from King’s Landing thus: 

When Prince Oberyn of the House Martell arrived in King’s Landing, his party had taken accommodations at some distance from the Red Keep. The prince would not, it was said, darken the doors of the chamber where his sister’s blood still darkened the cracks between the flagstones, not until he had no other choice. In their private rooms, the Dornish party made merry with whores and drink and dice, until eventually Tyrion Lannister had come to call, hoping to partake in these debaucheries.

Oberyn had welcomed the Imp. He had plied him with wine and goaded him at the gambling table until the Imp, stupid with drink, had confessed a great secret: his wife, the Lady Sansa of Winterfell, was a maid still. Their marriage was no marriage at all, but a show to appease his lord father. Having already taken heavy losses at the dice, the Imp had made a grand final wager: the Lady Sansa, against the recovery of his favorite destrier, which he had lost to the Prince earlier in the evening. 

Alas for the Imp, the dice had no love of him that night, and the Prince had won the roll. At first, Lord Tyrion had taken his loss in good grace. He thought to forfeit no more than the right to claim the Lady Sansa’s maidenhead, a delicacy he was unlikely to taste in any event. Perhaps, the Imp thought, after Oberyn had bedded his wife, the lady would at last develop an appetite for marital pleasures, and welcome the attentions of her lord husband more warmly than before. Oberyn had a reputation that way.

It had come as a nasty shock, both to the Imp and the lady, when Oberyn demanded she be brought to him that very hour. It was a greater shock still when the Imp had recovered from his wine-sickness the next morning to learn that Oberyn and all his household had quit the city that night, two weeks before the king’s wedding, bearing the Lady Sansa away with them. In his shame, the Imp had concealed their defection until it was too late for riders to overtake them. And by then, matters were past mending. At the prince’s command, the septas had examined the lady and confirmed her maiden state. The septons had relieved her of her marriage vows shortly after. 

No one in the capital knew whether Dorne meant to marry her to one of their own, or whether Prince Oberyn merely meant to keep the traitor’s daughter for his pleasure. The Queen Regent and her father had railed against the insult to their House, but King Joffrey was just as pleased to see the hapless girl bestowed as a Dornish whore. Perhaps he would have changed his mind in time, would have come to regret the loss of his favorite play-toy, but he was poisoned at the wedding feast before he had the chance. A great tragedy, no doubt.

There were rumblings in the capital after the King’s death—rumblings that boded ill for Dorne. But by then the prince and all his party were safely aboard their ships, halfway across Shipbreaker’s Bay. And there, Doran learned, the tale of Sansa Stark’s abduction was told very differently.

*

One evening (it was said) shortly after his arrival in the capital, Prince Oberyn had been strolling the gardens of the Red Keep by moonlight when he spied a beautiful maid in the godswood. In the grove sacred to her father’s gods, Sansa Stark had clung to the heart tree and wept: for the death of her lady mother and her brother the King in the North, for the destruction of all her House, for the marriage that bound her eternally to the Lannisters. Moved by her sorrow and her beauty, the prince had raised the maid to her feet and dried her tears. Her enemies, he told her, were his enemies. And if she would consent to depart with him, he would see her safely bestowed among the ladies of his own House, where the hand of every man (and half the women) would be raised in protection over her. For his own part, he would not suffer even the winds of heaven to beteem her face too roughly. In her gratitude, she had kissed him—chastely, as befit her tender years—and the Prince had known then that he loved her. It was said that their betrothal would be announced any day now. And perhaps, in time, Dorne might even march North, to reclaim Sansa Stark’s inheritance from these Boltons and these Greyjoys who had deprived her of it

These were the tales that rode ahead of Prince Oberyn’s party on its way back to Dorne. But the ravens from King’s Landing traveled faster than either whispers or horses. The very hour that Doran heard the clatter and commotion of horses arriving in the courtyard below his window, he was busy rereading the reports that stacked his desk in high piles. Chief among them—clamoring louder for attention than any of the others—was a letter bearing the red seal of the Hand of the King. 

Tywin Lannister was no boy, to resort to empty threads or useless bribes. He was old, and he was cunning; he had no wish to raise arms against Dorne, not when the alliance between Dorne and the six kingdoms remained fragile, as it had been ever since the death of Princess Elia. Had Oberyn chosen to steal away any lesser person than the heiress of Winterfell, wife of Tywin’s youngest son, the matter might have been smoothed over easily enough. But Sansa Stark was not a lesser person. And the consequences of her defection would have to be dealt with. Assuming it was a defection, and not a kidnapping. Doran did not think his brother the sort of man who would fetch a maid away from her home without her leave, but depending on the circumstances… 

Even after all these years, Doran knew that the scars that Elia’s death had left on Oberyn’s heart were not yet half-healed. If Oberyn had come to believe that Sansa Stark was in danger, Doran would put nothing past him.

Yet, for the moment, Doran was prepared to wait and withhold judgment until he heard the full story from his brother’s own lips. In Doran’s long experience, his brother often acted rashly, but rarely did he act wrongly. Not since he had finished burning through the madness of his youth, at least. Ellaria had taught Oberyn wisdom; fatherhood had taught him some small measure of prudence. 

Any minute now, Oberyn would appear to explain why he had quitted King’s Landing in such haste, bearing with him a different prize than the one that had been promised. Even now Doran could hear the sound of approaching footsteps, the clipped, heavy tread that always heralded the arrival of his brother when he was in a temper.

Areoh Hotah stepped forward to move his chair, but Doran waved him away, turning to face the door. He wanted to see Oberyn’s face before he had the chance to school his features into a more fitting expression. And he wanted Oberyn to see his face, so that he would not misunderstand.

Doran was not angry with his brother. Exasperated, perhaps, but not angry. He was only eager to hear the story in its entirety. It was, after all, certain to be a tale of great interest.

*

“Brother.” Oberyn halted in the doorway, and a pleased smile softened the war-like cast of his features. “I had not thought to find you awake at this hour. How do you fare?”

“Brother.” Doran offered Oberyn his hand; unable to leave his chair, it was as near as he could come to embracing him. “I thank you for your concern. I am well enough. I could not rest easy until I had seen you. We have much to discuss, it would seem.”

Oberyn nodded tightly, and Doran looked at Areoh Hotah, giving him a small nod of dismissal. The guard took up his station at the door, leaving the brothers alone together.

“How was the journey?” Doran started to wheel his chair in the direction of the drinks table, but Oberyn stopped him, pouring wine for the both of them. He sipped from one cup before handing it to his brother. It had never so much as crossed Doran’s mind that Oberyn would ever poison him; if his brother wanted him dead, he would do Doran the honor of showing him the blade first. But others, who did not know the Red Viper so well as his family did, found the gesture soothing. Oberyn raised his cup in salute and drank only a little, before setting it aside.

“We met with no mishap on the way,” Oberyn said. “The pace was hard on some of the women, but they are resting now.”

“And the Lady Sansa?”

“She suffered more than most,” Oberyn admitted. “She is not accustomed to the heat, and she had no suitable clothing. She nearly fell from her horse once, from the sun-sickness. Ellaria and the maesters are seeing to her now.”

Doran drew his chair back to his desk. By habit, his fingers brushed the scroll with the red seal, but Oberyn did not notice. He stood before the open windows, gazing down at the courtyard below, seemingly lost to his thoughts. Doran would have allowed him as much time as he needed to gather himself after his long ride, but the hour was late, and his potions called to him. Another hour and Doran’s own head would be muddled, with pain or with milk of the poppy—neither would be conducive to business.

“Tell me what happened,” he said gently. “Tell it plainly. There will be time enough tomorrow for details.”

Doran watched as his brother’s shoulders heaved and fell. Oberyn turned to face him again, taking up the wine cup once more. Doran gestured for him to sit. 

“No doubt you have heard rumors,” Oberyn said, perching at the edge of a chaise.

“Many rumors,” Doran agreed. “Fascinating tales of heroism and maidens in distress and midnight rides. Now I would hear the truth.”

Oberyn was plainly exhausted, but he grinned nonetheless. “No doubt the gossips have it partly right,” he said. “They usually do. But the truth of the matter is known to no one, save to me and the Lady Sansa. I must break my confidence with her in order to tell you all.”

Doran nodded, understanding what it was Oberyn did not say. He too would keep confidence, unless the time came when he could do so no longer.

“Make yourself comfortable, brother,” Oberyn told him. “It is a long story.”

 

_Oberyn_

One night, _the tale began_ , shortly before the boy king’s wedding, Oberyn had departed the Red Keep after a feast. It was a bad night; the food, the wine, the company and conversation, all of it vexed him, and he had not wished to return to Ellaria in foul spirits, so he had walked for a time in the gardens by torchlight. Soon he had realized that he was being followed. His hand had stolen to the hilt of his dagger, but despite the implied threat the footsteps neither sped up nor slowed. So he turned, and saw behind him on the path a figure hooded and cloaked. Tall enough, nearly, for a man, but too slender, the steps too timid. The woman faltered when she saw him looking, but gathered her courage to approach. 

“Forgive me, Prince Oberyn,” she had said, curtseying. “I needed to speak to you privately. This was the only way.”

He did not relax his guard. Alone, she was no danger to him, but if she were a Lannister spy she might have confederates lurking on the path ahead.

“Usually, when girls come seeking me in gardens by torchlight, they show me their face,” he said lightly. “They show me other things as well.”

That was the girl’s cue to lower her hood and give him a glimpse of the delights she had to offer. Instead, she fell back a pace and pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around her. 

_Not that sort of trap, then_. Oberyn frowned. “What is it you want?”

“There is a, a favor I would ask of you.”

She must be highborn. No handmaiden would presume ask a favor of a prince of Dorne, not in speech so plain, not even if she served the Lannisters. Oberyn’s curiosity was roused; he begged her to name the favor.

“They say…” Her chest rose and fell as though she had been running. He watched as she pressed a white hand against her breast, as though to calm a racing heart. “They say that you have great skill with potions.”

She was clever enough to keep her distance from him, quick enough to dart backwards when he stepped forward, thinking to unmask her. But though she retreated, she did not flee. 

“Please,” she said again, her voice cracking. “I will do anything you ask of me if you will give me what I need.”

Suddenly, Oberyn saw how the matter stood. She was unlikely to be a spy; doubtless she was only a foolish girl who had found herself with child, but not until it was too far gone for the usual remedies. There existed potions that would induce a late miscarriage, but they were dangerous, fatal to both mother and babe if not skillfully prepared. The maesters in the Red Keep might help her, if she had a suitable bribe, but they would not keep her secret if questions were asked later. 

_So she has come to that famous poisoner, the Red Viper, thinking no doubt that a man of his reputation would not scruple to help an obliging girl who sought to deprive one of Lannister’s bannermen of his heir._ Oberyn was sorry to disappoint her, but it could not be helped.

“I do not keep such potions in my stores,” he told her. “You had better confide your difficulty to Lord Baelish. No doubt his whores have need of them often enough, and maybe he will assist you, if you meet his price.”

He had expected her to cry, to throw herself at his feet. If she had been sent by the Lannisters to entrap him in some scheme, she would be made desperate by the prospect of having to report failure to her masters. And even if she were honest, she would still weep. Everyone in King’s Landing knew what it meant to place themself in the power of a man like Petyr Baelish.

“Littlefinger will not give me what I need,” she said, her voice no longer timid, but bitter. “He has his own plans for me, but I do not trust him.”

Oberyn stared at her. The wheels of his thoughts turned, and new ideas emerged from the tumult.

“Is there a place we can speak?” he said. He took his hand away from his dagger and stretched it towards her, palm upturned. “There are too many dark corners in this maze.”

She hesitated a long moment, and Oberyn felt that from beneath the shadow of her hood she was judging him, weighing his intentions. She looked left, then right, and the movement exposed a few strands of gleaming copper hair. She placed her small hand in his and led him down the path, down forks and turns he had never walked before. Her footing was sure and he was careful to step only where she stepped. A few minutes later they were in the godswood.

Oberyn had heard that such a refuge existed deep in the Red Keep, but Dorne walked in the light of the Seven, and it had never occurred to him to seek it out. The moonlight was brighter here in the ancient grove. So bright, that when the girl lowered her hood, Oberyn could see her face as plain as day. 

He bowed, unsurprised by what the moonlight had revealed. “Lady Sansa.”

“Prince Oberyn.” She had the gracious, pretty manners of a girl who listened to her septa when she was young. “You knew me?”

“As you knew me,” he said. 

“I do not presume to know anything about you, Prince Oberyn, save what I have heard whispered.” She held her head erect. “They say that you are no friend to my husband’s House. That makes you a rare man indeed. The Lannisters have many enemies, but in the capital there are none who would dare cross them.” 

Oberyn, far from insulted, looked at her and thought, _There is one, at least_ , but he held his tongue.

“My lord father was a friend to Dorne,” she said, rubbing her arms and looking away from him, through the trees, across the moonlit waters of the bay that lapped at the foot of the high hill. 

“If you say so, it is not for me to deny it.” Oberyn kept his tone cool, polite

“I have learned things about my family here in King’s Landing that I never knew before. People love to gossip, especially the women. We have little enough else to do.” She bit her lip. “My father and King Robert were friends in their youth—fostered together with Lord Arryn. They were closer than brothers, people said. Yet we never visited the capital, never went south. I used to beg…” She took a shuddering breath. “I begged my father to let us visit King’s Landing when I was a child. I never understood why he stayed away.”

Oberyn lifted his chin, curious now. “But you understand now?”

She nodded, her shoulders hunched as she continued to rub her arms against the chill. “When…when the Princess your sister and her children were, were murdered during the war, my father…he could not bear it.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “It horrified him. He told the king that their murderers must be brought to justice, but the king would not listen. So my father went back to Winterfell. He stayed away, all those years, until…” She shook her head, as if to deny the past. “I wish we’d never come here.”

 _She is a child,_ Oberyn thought. Only such an innocent would dare speak to him so baldly of his sister’s death. But there was something in what she said. House Martell had no great love for the Starks, but Eddard Stark had taken it upon himself to bear Elia’s bones in state to Sunspear. No Lannisters, no Baratheons had accompanied him. 

“So, for the sake of this friendship, you ask of me…what? Better speak plainly. You will be missed before long.”

Sansa laughed. It was not a pretty sound. She turned to the great heart tree and rested her hand next to the carved face. “I come every day and night to the godswood. They are used to it. They think I’m going mad. I’ve heard my maids say so.”

“You do not strike me as mad.”

“Not yet.” She kept her back to him. “You wished me to speak plainly.”

“I did.”

“The potion I need…” Sansa’s fingers trailed over the ancient face, caressing the weathered features, as if it brought to mind the face of someone she loved. “I know nothing of such philtres. It can be anything. I don’t care, so long as it works quickly. If…if it were painless, all the better, but it must be quick.”

Oberyn tilted his head. “It is a poison, you ask for, not a potion.”

She did not look at him, but she nodded, a single jerk of the head. “I know that I have no right to ask you for anything, you owe me nothing. But I would beg it of you. As a mercy.”

Oberyn’s head was thick with wine when first he entered these gardens, but no longer. The shadow of the Stranger was in the grove with them, resting cool fingers against the back of his neck. 

“Whom do you wish to murder?” His tone was teasing, as if he did not believe her to be in earnest. 

She turned, frowning. Her hair was long and loose, burnished waves that rippled in the moonlight. She was a child, a beautiful one, but her face was as pale as a corpse. 

“Perhaps your enemies are also my enemies?” he coaxed. “If so, perhaps I might do us both a service.”

Tyrion Lannister was lately her husband. Of all the Lannisters Oberyn intended to kill, Tyrion’s name was at the bottom of the tally. He was only a boy when his father sacked King’s Landing, after all, and Oberyn did not punish men for the crimes of their fathers. So long as the Imp did not get in the way, Oberyn was not minded to seek him out. And yet, should Sansa Stark ask it of him—the idea would bear consideration. A Lannister was a Lannister, after all.

“I don’t…” Sansa’s voice was faint, nearly carried away on the salt breeze. “I don’t want to _murder_ anyone, I…”

Oberyn waited, studying her, while she searched for the words that would carry her over the brink.

“I don’t want it for…someone else,” she said at last.

The night was very still around them. Oberyn stared at her, dumbstruck. All the amusement he had felt at finding himself in this position, whispering of intrigue and assassination with a girl of—twelve? thirteen?—gave way abruptly to something else: compassion that cut like a knife, worrying the edges of a decades-old wound.

He walked towards her. She backed up a pace, but there was nowhere for her to go; the heart tree stood at her back. Oberyn would not have had her afraid of him, but he must understand. Slowly, he raised a hand, not missing how she flinched, and tilted her chin up with two fingers.

This was their first meeting. The Imp had not deigned to introduce his wife, and Oberyn had heard it said that she never appeared in court anymore unless her presence was commanded. Their paths had scarcely crossed, though once or twice he had spied her from afar and looked his fill. She was beautiful, and such beauty was made to be noticed by men. She was all the fairer by moonlight.

When he met her eyes, however, he saw nothing vulnerable in them. Crone’s eyes, those. Bleak and chill like the first twilight of winter. 

“Tell me why,” he said, after the silence had stretched to breaking point.

“If you know who I am then you know why.”

“I know that these Lannisters murdered your lord father and named him traitor. I know that you were to be married to the king, until he cast you aside for another. I know that they married you to the dwarf. All this, you have survived. Men and women do not survive such grief unless their will is very strong.” The tips of his fingers were warm where they brushed against her skin. He wanted to cup her face in his hands, but he did not think the touch would be welcome. “Why _now?_

She rubbed her arms and looked away from him, through the trees, across the moonlit waters of the bay that lapped at the foot of the high hill. Her mouth opened and closed. Two bright spots of color flushed her cheeks. She looked down. 

“I cannot speak of it.”

“You must.”

Sansa shook her head tightly. She turned away, wrapping her cloak around her like a blanket, looking out over the bay. The drop to the shore below was steep. Steep enough to kill, perhaps, if one struck the rocks. Oberyn heard her voice again: _I come every day to the godswood_. He did not think it was only to pray to her father’s gods that she visited this desolate place so often.

An hour ago, the girl was no one to him. But she had drawn him in, made him know her peril, and now his need was urgent. “Lady Sansa,” he murmured. “Unless you confide in me, I cannot help you.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “It was wrong of me to approach you; I beg your pardon. Please do not tell anyone that you saw me tonight, or I will have to answer for it.”

Why had she spoken to him of his sister? Was she clever enough to manipulate him thus? 

“If you will unburden yourself to me, then I _will_ help you,” Oberyn said. “I swear it, by the old gods and the new. Come away from the edge.”

She jumped when he touched the back of her arm, but did as she was bid. Turning again to the heart tree, she sank into its roots, heedless of her dress or the mud. The way she leaned into the trunk told him that she had done this many times before, that this was the sole source of her solace in the Red Keep. _I come every day_. Her head rested next to the carved face. 

Oberyn looked down on her for as long as he could bear to do so, then sank to one knee, waiting.

“My lord husband is kind to me,” she said quietly. “He is a Lannister, but he protected me from Joffrey when he was Hand of the King. Even now, since our marriage, he has not…he does not share my bed, because he knows I do not wish it.”

Oberyn was oddly relieved; he had expected her to recite a litany of the Imp’s crimes. Then a thought stays him. “Does Lord Tywin know that your marriage remains unconsummated?”

“I think so. I think everyone knows. The Queen, Lord Tywin, Joffrey…” Sansa took a long, shuddering breath. “Joffrey told me, on my wedding night, that so long as the babe is a Lannister, it scarcely matters who…who puts it there. He said—”

She broke off abruptly and began pleating the hem of her cloak between her fingers. 

_Tywin Lannister will have his heir one way or another_ , Oberyn thinks, the realization arriving slowly, like a raven from a distant land. _And the butcher’s boy will have his toys._

The grass under his knee was damp with night-dew, the salt breeze from the bay colder every minute. Oberyn’s brother was the sort of man who appeared the more tranquil the more he raged inside; Oberyn was not. It was difficult to remain still and quiet, there in that grove before that child, whom he dared not frighten. His hand became a fist; Oberyn used it to stop his mouth. 

In his mind, he was far away from the godswood, from the capital. He was a young man again, mad with drink, the canvas of his imagination splattered with red blood. Every night for years he had dreamed the same dream: _Elia’s shattered bones, Elia’s torn flesh, Elia’s sweet babes smeared like dung across a marble floor._

Oberyn closed his eyes. If he looked on Sansa just then, he knew that he would see another in her place, hear another’s soft voice. _I would beg it of you, as a mercy._

“Need I speak plainer?” Sansa’s voice was sharp, drawing him from his reverie.

“I understand you all too well, Lady Sansa.”

“Then you must help me. You _swore._ ”

What had she asked for? A poison, swift and painless, to usher her into the arms of the Stranger before Tywin Lannister could dispatch his kinsmen to violate her. She was brave as she was beautiful. And Oberyn would break a hundred vows to pieces before he gave her the death she craved.

“Tell me something, my lady,” he said. “Do you trust your husband?”

Sansa blinked. “In what way?”

“Have you told him that the king so threatened you?”

“No! I cannot! He would be angry, he’s threatened Joffrey twice because of me, he would do something foolish.”

Oberyn smiled, for just then she sounded like Ellaria. “Should he do less, for his wife’s honor?” he said.

“Lord Tyrion is the only person in King’s Landing who has ever protected me, even a little.” Her voice did not tremble, but her hands did. “If my husband is killed, Joffrey will make me his whore. I—I was warned.”

Oberyn’s smile melted away. “That will not happen,” he said. “Nor must you die to escape that fate.”

“If you believe that, then you don’t know them.”

“But I do know them,” he said gently. “Better than you can imagine. My lady, does Lord Tyrion care for you, do you think? If he knew the danger, would he let you leave this city for another place, where you would be safe?”

Sansa blinked, once, twice. Oberyn saw the liquid brightness in her eyes. “My whole family is dead. There is no safe place for me.”

“There is. In Dorne. You would be safe in Dorne.”

It seemed to Oberyn that she stopped breathing. She was as still as if she were dead; where had she learned to be so still? 

Ellaria would call him a fool; his brother would be angrier still; the Lannisters would hound him as far as they dared. Unless his household was able to slip from King’s Landing unnoticed, blood would be spilled. 

_Elia,_ he thought, _I came here for Elia, for the children, for justice._ Sansa Stark was not the prize he had intended to bear away from this city. But she was alive, and Elia was not. Ten years ago that would not have mattered to him, but Oberyn was older now, and though e hated even to think it, he knew that there would be time enough for Clegane once Lady Sansa was safely bestowed in Sunspear. 

“Dorne.” Sansa whispered the word as though she had never tasted it before. “You…you want to take me back to your home with you?” Her back straightened. “Do you offer me your hand in marriage, Prince Oberyn?”

Her voice was so stiff that Oberyn almost laughed at her, as he would have laughed at one of his daughters to make her smile again. Then he looked into her eyes. She had such curious eyes: they were silver-blue, ringed by a darker blue, like Valyrian steel. 

Those cold, curious eyes were looking at him with suspicion, even resignation, and Oberyn understood, suddenly, what she must be thinking—that her body was the coin that would buy her freedom, that marriage to a man three times her age was her best hope of escape. Or who knew—they told strange tales about Dorne in King’s Landing. Perhaps she feared a worse fate.

“Lady Sansa.” Oberyn extended his hand to her, as he had done in the garden. She watched him for a moment like she was afraid to move, like his hand was a trap, and Oberyn just had time to think, _if the Imp has treated her so kindly, then who taught her such fear?_ when before his eyes she at last placed her fingers within his.

Oberyn kissed them swiftly, wanting to leave her in no doubt of his intentions, then pressed her hand between both of his, warming her fingers against the night’s chill.

“Tomorrow night, I shall invite Lord Tyrion and yourself to dine with me, someplace far from the Red Keep and its spying eyes. There we will discuss many things, the three of us. Until then, I ask you to have faith in me. I do not mean to free you from this place only to deliver you to another prison.”

“But _why_? Why would you do that, why would you risk—”

Oberyn hushed her, squeezing her hand. “The gods work their will strangely,” he told her. “I came to this hateful city for a purpose. I see now that it was not the purpose I intended. Let us bid one another farewell for tonight. Go back to your husband. See to it that he accepts my invitation tomorrow. Whatever may happen, I promise that you will not regret taking me into your confidence.”

Stiffly, he climbed to his feet. He did not release Sansa’s hand, so she rose with him. 

Oberyn knew that she did not trust him yet, not entirely, but he did not blame her. This was not the outcome she had expected or wished for when she approached him in the gardens. She had come to him with her mind made up to die; when one was resolved to die, one ceased to be plagued by uncertainties. Now he had asked her, on his bare word, to take up the burden of uncertainty once more, to abstain from the relief that death would bring. 

No doubt a sleepless night lay ahead of her. But he would not have asked her to trust him if he did not think her capable of mastering her fear. She had risked much, begging the Stranger’s mercy of him. If he was not mistaken she would risk even more for hope—for life.

Sansa took her hand from his and bunched her cloak in her fingers. “You should wait here for a time,” she said. “It would not do for the guards at the drawbridge to see us together.”

“I will make my own way out of the keep. No guard will see me.” Oberyn smiled at her, as gently as he knew how. “Good night, Lady Sansa. Until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she said. Lifting the hem of her skirts, she started for the path, only to turn back. “Prince Oberyn. I would ask…”

“Anything,” he promised her, startled to realize that he meant it.

“Do not tell my husband why I sought you out tonight.” Her expression was, for perhaps the first time, less than perfectly controlled. She bit her lower lip. “He wants to believe he can protect me. It would hurt him, if he knew that I…if he knew.”

“Your secrets are my secrets,” Oberyn told her.

Sansa nodded. Oberyn watched her retreat until he could no long see her, no longer hear the rustling of bushes or the light tread of her slippers on the path. Even then, he continued to listen for sounds of trouble. First the daughter, then the wife of two of the most despised men in King’s Landing, there was no guarantee that Sansa Stark was safe from any man who served the boy king, not even his sworn knights. Oberyn waited for a soft cry, for cruel laughter, but he heard nothing, only the whispering of the leaves in the godswood. Only when he was certain that she had made her way in safety did he start to climb down the embankment towards the bay, where his ships were docked. Preparations must be made tonight; there was not a moment to lose.

But before he forsook the godswood, he turned to face the heart tree, and offer a silent prayer to the gods of Sansa Stark’s fathers. _Keep her safe. Deliver her to me, and I will not fail her._

 

_Doran_

“Thus it happened,” Oberyn told his brother. By now his wine cup was empty. “She has been seen by the septas. By all the laws of gods and men, she is an orphan and a maid, and as a knight I had no choice save to cloak her in her maiden’s right. I swore a sacred vow to keep her safe in Dorne, so if Lord Tywin wants her, he must come and take her. By the gods, I would that he should try.” 

Oberyn’s voice rose there at the end. He pursed his lips and put the wine away from him once more.

Doran was surprised by nothing his brother had just told him, although some flicker of naïveté had sputtered and died within him at the thought that Tywin Lannister would have raped a maid of thirteen simply to secure the succession of his line. He had no right to be surprised, not after how Elia died, but there was a difference between peace and wartime. Doran had thought Tywin Lannister respected that distinction.

“A more heroic tale than ever I dared dream, brother,” said Doran. “But your lady Sansa is right, it had best remain between us. Poor maid.” Doran had heart of other abuses suffered by the lady at King Joffrey’s command, but knew better than to mention them to his brother now and throw kindling on embers. “The singers will make much of how Oberyn of Dorne courted his bride.”

Oberyn seemed, almost, to flinch. Doran had been expecting it. “You do mean to marry her, do you not?”

Sansa Stark had no living family, save a mad aunt and her sickly cousin who was Lord of the Vale. But the Arryns had not stirred from their high mountain keep since the death of the old lord. Sansa’s last Tully relation, the Lord Edmure, was a prisoner, and no one knew where his uncle the Blackfish was. If Oberyn meant to keep Eddard Stark’s daughter as his bedwarmer, there was no one of her blood left to object. 

No one, perhaps, save Doran himself. 

“You have not laid eyes on her yet. She is a child.” Oberyn’s voice was harsh.

“She was a woman wed,” Doran pointed out.

“But not bedded.” Oberyn gave his brother a scoffing look. “Tyrion Lannister is a dwarf with half a face. He must have fallen to his knees blessing all the gods when he found himself married to the most beautiful maiden in Westeros. Yet once he had her, even he would not touch her. What do you make of that?”

“Perhaps he tried, and she bested him.” Doran had spied the girl from his windows when Oberyn’s party arrived. She was slender as a reed, yet tall as a young sapling. “The women of the North are not like their counterparts in the crownlands or the reach; some of them wield blades. Perhaps she had put the Imp in his place, and held him there.”

He had hoped to make his brother laugh, but Oberyn smiled like one who took no pleasure in it.

“The lady is dutiful,” said. “she would have given him his bed rights, if he had demanded them.” Oberyn’s lip curled. “Tywin Lannister’s greatest mistake was marrying the heiress of Winterfell to the one man of his House who scrupled to violate her.”

“A true paragon,” said Doran dryly. “And yet, you took her from him.”

“It was necessary.”

“Necessary for what?” Doran only wants to hear his brother say it.

“To save her life and preserve her honor,” Oberyn barked. 

Doran was satisfied. He was satisfied already—he did not believe that Sansa Stark had been manipulating his brother, nor did he see himself choosing any differently had he been in Oberyn’s place. Through their long history the men and women of their House have risked much for the honor of maids. But he had been waiting to hear that note in Doran’s voice—the fear, the determination, that would make this next step all the easier.

“If you have taken her into your protection I will not dispute it,” said Doran, tidying a stack of papers as though he had work to get back. “But she is the heiress of Winterfell, not a kitchen wench. Until she is married, we will have no peace.”

“She is a child,” Oberyn’s said again, his voice grating. 

“A woman flowered, surely,” Doran reminded him. “Or they would not have bothered giving her to the Imp.”

“Her life was nothing to these Lannisters.” Oberyn burst from his chair, pacing the solar. “It was greed that saw her married at such an age. Greed, lest the last of the Starks elude their grasp. Greed for flesh, greed for heirs. Maids who are made mothers within a year of their first flowering die in childbed more often than not, but what did they care?” 

Oberyn turned to face him. “Make her a ward of our House. Have her betrothed if you must, but do not speak of marriage yet.”

Doran said nothing. In truth, he too would sooner see Sansa Stark fostered than wedded, but there was the tricky matter of her status in Dorne. She was too highborn to blend seamlessly into Doran’s collection of younger nieces, too highborn for any fate at all, save the one Oberyn would not hear of.

“It will be as you say,” he murmured, and was pleased when he saw the tension bleed from Oberyn’s taut features. “She will be betrothed. With a long engagement to follow, I think. Two years, three if possible.”

Doran watched his brother’s posture relax, and wondered whether the long journey had muddle his wits, or whether he had anticipated—in more than one sense—how Sansa Stark’s time in Dorne would unfold.

She must be betrothed, sooner rather than later. But Doran’s sons were promised already. Among the men of their House, Oberyn remained unwed, and therefore only Oberyn would do for Sansa Stark.

That, at least, was how the problem resolved itself on parchment. The hour was too late, and Doran was too tired, to make any final judgments yet.

First thing in the morning, he would speak to the Lady Sansa herself. In spite of her tender years, Doran suspected she was not such a child as Oberyn believed. She had come of age in King’s Landing, after all, and she had not wasted those years in gossip and dalliance. Doran had been receiving reports of her since the death of her lord father. One report in particular interested him especially, but he was withholding judgment until he laid eyes on the girl for himself.

“You are certain that Lord Tyrion will not demand his wife’s return?” Doran said, though he knew the answer already. He was tired, and in pain, ready to bring the interview to a close.

“We came to an understanding,” Oberyn said, his tone dismissive. “I gave him my word that in Dorne she would suffer no insult.”

“Nor shall she,” Doran echoed the promise. “Very well. I would see her when she is rested. In the morning, perhaps.”

“The day after. She must keep to her bed she is recovered from the journey.”

“A day, then. I trust you will see her properly bestowed and attended until then.”

“Already done.” Oberyn grinned. “I have set Ellaria on her.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Sansa_

They were kind, these Dornishwomen, Sansa thought. Weeks they had been waiting on her, their smooth hands moving over her sunburned body, cooling her brow, washing away her fevers. All the while, Sansa had been too weak, too delirious, to remember any of their names or faces, yet their manners toward her had not altered, nor their gentleness.

Even the lady (she wasn’t one, but Sansa did not know how else to think of her) who gave the others their orders, the one who urged Sansa to sample the iced drinks and platters of fruit that were brought to her tent—even she was gentle, and good. Sansa knew that her name was Ellaria and that she was Prince Oberyn’s paramour. Sansa did not know what such a title betokened, she only knew that Ellaria was one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, that she had the sort of beauty that could only elicit awe, never envy. Perhaps that was what the title denoted, Sansa thought dreamily. Ellaria, Paramour of Princes, Fairest in All of Dorne.

When at least they reached Sunspear, Sansa had to be carried to her rooms. At the door, she had asked to be put down, had shuffled a few feet forwards and dismissed her attendants with a smile. Then she had collapsed on top of the single large trunk she had brought with her from King’s Landing. There hadn’t been time before their hasty departure to pack anything more.

Ellaria had found her there within the half-hour. It was as if she knew that Sansa would be good for nothing as soon as her feet touched solid ground. “This is the problem,” she said, plucking at Sansa’s dress. The dagged sleeves had been trailing in the dust for weeks because Sansa had grown too weary to hold them up. _You must hold your hands just so, or no one will be able to see the lovely fabric in the lining, do you see?_ “These heavy brocades will be the death of you in this sun.”

“I couldn’t wear the silks the women brought me,” Sansa explained wearily. “After an hour, my skin began to blister and peel.” Even now, every inch of flesh not concealed by the sweltering brocades was bright red and sore to the touch.

“I have sent for a salve, it will help immensely,” Ellaria told her. “As for clothing, my daughters will lend you all that is necessary until the needlewomen have taken your measure and made up your new wardrobe. Winter colors, I think, for our Northern lady—blue and silver to bring out your eyes.” Ellaria winked. “You must stay indoors or in the shade while your complexion adjusts.”

Who would pay for all this new finery? Sansa wondered, too weary even to ask. Prince Oberyn was rich, to be sure, but he had promised to protect her, nothing more. In King’s Landing, when she was still betrothed to Joffrey, her clothing and food were paid for by the royal treasury. As soon as Joffrey cast her aside, they had married her to Lord Tyrion; husbands paid for their wives’ needs, and Tyrion had begrudged her nothing. Now she was in Dorne. She had no husband; she was not even betrothed to anyone. Why should it matter to these Dornish whether or not she looked like a fine lady? Sansa was no one, now. She was little more than a beggar. Sooner or later she would have to earn her keep, or they would begin to begrudge her this finery, this food, this kindness.

No sooner had Ellaria collected an armful of Sansa’s old clothing for cleaning and repair than Sansa was asleep. She did not even remember how she had reached her bed; perhaps someone had carried her. They let her sleep until late the next morning, and she woke to find her chambers empty, cool morning light filtering through the windows. Sansa was grateful for the privacy. She was even more grateful there was no one to watch as she stumbled from the bed, stiff and sore, to visit the privy and wash with the cold water in the small tub behind the changing screen. The clothes she had brought with her were gone, so she had put her shift back on and sat at the dressing table for awhile, trying to untangle the knots from her frizzing hair. Her hands trembled as she held the comb. Perhaps she was meant to wait until one of the women returned to help her, but when would that be? No one had told her anything.

On the chaise near the foot of the bed there lay heaps of unfamiliar dresses. Someone must have brought them in the night. Her fingers trailed over the colorful silks, the light linens, the lengths of cotton gauze that were so fine as to be nearly transparent. She hadn’t had the nerve to try any of it on. This one left the arms bare: what would her mother say? This one was slashed to mid-thigh, what would Septa Mordane think? Sansa pulled a fluttery garment in silk of ice-blue from the heap; she liked the color, and it seemed more modestly cut than the others. But when she stood up, allowing the dress to tumble out of its folds, she saw that it scarcely had a back. Ellaria favored dresses of this sort, Sansa remembered. Even some of the serving women wore them. Perhaps this was simply how Sansa was expected to attire herself now.

Sansa stood there, she knew not how long, holding the dress and imagining how it would feel to wear it. She remembered the day Joffrey’s guards had torn open her gown, how the cold air had crawled like fingers down the bare skin of her back.

It had been many months since she had cared to look at herself in a full-length glass, but her maids told her she still bore scars, pink wheals from the flats of Ser Meryn’s sword, and Ser Boros’s—maybe others, too. Perhaps that was why Tyrion had turned away from her on their wedding night. Sansa had been standing there in her shift, waiting for him to approach, waiting for him to tell her what to do so they could just get on with it, get it over with. But he had not approached. He had slept on the chaise, for months. 

Had Tyrion truly meant to be kind, she wondered now, or had he merely been disgusted by the mess on her back? It would explain why he had given her over into Prince Oberyn’s care with scarcely a protest. If Sansa left her rooms in one of these revealing summer dresses, what would Ellaria say, what would Prince Oberyn think? Men and women alike called her beautiful, but it was one thing to have a pretty face ( _I like her pretty,_ Joffrey had said) and quite another to have a disfigured body. Perhaps, once these Dornish saw her so revealed, they would decide she was useless to them. Perhaps they would change their minds and send her back.

_I will not go back_ , Sansa decided, amazed by how calmly she could think it. The palace here was not guarded as the Red Keep had been guarded, and the soldiers did not yet know her face. She could escape, if need be. She could live among beggars if she had to, singing and playing the harp for coins. Perhaps she would starve, or be killed, but better to die a beggar in Dorne than a prisoner of the Lannisters. 

Men said that it was courageous not to fear death, but Sansa had found it to be the other way around. First, she had made up her mind to die; only afterwards had she discovered a courage she never knew she possessed. She would never have found the nerve to speak to Prince Oberyn in the gardens that night if she had not come prepared to die. She would never have found the nerve to sit through that interminable dinner with Lord Tyrion and Prince Oberyn the night following, if she had not been prepared to decide her own fate.

Sansa sat at the dressing table for a long time. There was nowhere else for her to go, and truly, she did not wish to go anywhere. If the women came again, she would tell them she was ill and must keep to her bed. It was scarcely a lie; she felt faint when she stood up too quickly, and her stomach roiled, from hunger or sickness she could not tell. 

Another hour passed before the doors of her chamber opened. Sansa turned, expecting a maid, words of dismissal on the tip of her tongue. But it was Ellaria, looking radiant in her yellow silks, cool and fresh despite the heat of the morning.

“You are awake!” said Ellaria, smiling. “Are you feeling recovered at all? I told the girls to let you sleep, though I promise, only the excitement of your arrival could have made them quit their beds before noon. Oberyn’s elder daughters are like him, they rise before the sun, but my girls and I grow sluggish in the heat. Is the clothing arrived? Ah, yes, good.” Ellaria picked up the blue silk. “You like this one? I thought it would suit you. It belonged to Lady Nymeria once; she is fair, like you, the only blonde in all Oberyn’s brood.”

Sansa did not know what to say, so she reverted to the courtesies her mother had taught her: “All of these dresses are beautiful. I fear they are too fine for me.”

“They are nothing of the kind, but they will do well enough for now. Come, you must be dressed. Prince Doran has been asking for you. He is a patient man, but his health permits him only a few hours a day to attend to business, so it is best not to keep him waiting.” Ellaria gathered up the blue dress and hanged it carefully on two hooks set inside the changing screen. “Try it, we will see how it fits.”

Sansa thought she had a better grasp on Ellaria’s standing at court now, but there were aspects that confused her still. Ellaria was a Sand, a highborn bastard from the south, so she would never marry Oberyn or be his Princess. Even so, she shared the Prince’s bed, was mother to four of his children, dined at the high table with the prince and his brother. It seemed to Sansa that Prince Oberyn scarcely did less honor to Ellaria than any man might do his trueborn wife. At the very least, Sansa grasped that Ellaria was no servant, that it was not her place to refuse Ellaria anything, much less send her away like a servant. 

_When you are married, it may be that the customs of your husband’s family will seem strange to you,_ Sansa’s mother had told her once. _You must watch and see how things are done there, and be careful not to give offense out of ignorance._

Sansa no longer had a husband, and she could scarcely help being ignorant, but she had learned in King’s Landing that people were rarely offended when she treated them with greater courtesy than their rank entitled them to. It would cost her nothing to treat Ellaria as though she were Prince Oberyn’s trueborn wife. Except that would mean obeying her, putting on the dress, and Sansa was afraid what would happen when Ellaria saw her in that dress.

The solution occurred to her at last when she stepped behind the screen and let the shift fall around her ankles. _I will wear my hair loose._ Her hair had never been cut, not once; it was thick and wavy, falling nearly to the backs of her knees. Her hair would be her cloak and hide her shame. Sansa felt such relief that she was able to enjoy the soft glide of the silk dress over her sand-scoured skin. She felt deliciously cool, and the ice-blue fabric contrasted nicely with the reddish tones of her hair. She wished she had a glass to examine herself in before she left the shelter of the screen, but there was nothing to be done about that. Sansa slipped her feet back into her worn slippers and emerged, hands clasped before her, for Ellaria’s inspection.

“My dear!” Ellaria’s voice was warm, as warm as a mother’s. “You are radiant. It suits you, I knew that it would. Now come, sit, and let me dress your hair.”

“Oh, but you—you needn’t,” said Sansa feebly, as Ellaria guided her back to the dressing table. “You aren’t my maid. I don’t mind letting it fall as it is.”

“You are a sweet, considerate girl, and I am glad to do it, just as I arrange my daughters’ hair.” Ellaria came to stand behind her in the glass. “Is there a fashion you prefer? You will be cooler if the hair is swept away from your neck, but it would be a shame to hide such pretty waves in tight coils.”

Sansa tried not to let her relief show. “In King’s Landing, my maids twisted two strands at the side of my face and fastened them in the back with pins.”

Ellaria clucked approvingly. “Like a circlet. That will suit you nicely. With a jeweled pin to clasp the strands together, I think.”

Sansa had no jeweled pins. Her mother had sent Sansa’s wedding jewels south with her, a lifetime ago, but every stone of value had been confiscated from her rooms after her father’s beheading, lest Sansa get any ideas about running away. But before she could protest, Ellaria had plucked a pin out of her own hair and inserted it in the knot that secured her tresses. Sansa opened her mouth, but Ellaria shushed her. “You will have fine things of your own soon enough,” she said. “In the mean time, you will meet Prince Doran attired as befits your birth.”

Sansa could not help but flinch. In King’s Landing, no one alluded to her birth unless it was to remind her that she had traitor’s blood, that she deserved every slight and cruelty the King and Queen Regent could devise, and it was only by their generosity that she was not turned out in the streets naked. 

But Ellaria’s hands were steady, her fingers gentle, and she did not pull a single hair. Sansa’s maids had pulled her hair because it amused them to do so—always apologizing after, but their laughter was proof that it had been no accident. Sansa had never bothered to reprove them. They were Lannister women; they had been Princess Myrcella’s handmaidens, the ones who had not been selected to accompany her to Dorne, and they had resented being left behind. Sansa supposed she would have resented it too, in their place.

“Is the Princess Myrcella in Sunspear?” Sansa asked. 

Myrcella was a sweet girl, like Tommen, and cleverer by far than Joffrey. Sansa had enjoyed her company, back before…before everything changed. Myrcella was Arya’s age, but nothing like Arya; she had looked up to Sansa where Arya had nothing felt nothing but contempt for her. But Arya was her sister, her little sister, and it had been Sansa’s job to look after her, keep her safe, as it had been Robb’s duty to keep Sansa safe.

_I miss Arya,_ Sansa thought fiercely, as she had scarcely ever allowed herself think when she was in King’s Landing. Everyone said that Arya must be dead, but Sansa didn’t believe it. Arya had a sword; Arya could pass for a boy when she wanted to. _Arya Underfoot_ , Sansa thought fondly. If anyone could have escaped the chaos that had erupted in the Tower of the Hand after their father’s arrest, it would be Arya. If anyone could survive the long trek back home, it would be Arya. And Arya would have the sense to keep her identity a secret until she was safe. For a long time, Sansa thought that maybe Arya would find Robb and Mother, but they were dead now, and if Arya had died with them Joffrey would not have hesitated to rub that in her face as well.

“Such a sad look,” Ellaria tutted. “Yes, the Princess is in the palace, though she makes for the Water Gardens with my girls in a few days. Perhaps you would like to join them?” Sansa said nothing. “Or perhaps you have had your fill of Lannisters for the moment?”

“Myrcella isn’t to blame for… she’s just a child. Is she happy here in Dorne, do you think?”

“Yes, I would say so. Very happy. She’s a clever little thing, and she has made a great friend of Prince Trystane.”

Prince Trystane was Myrcella’s betrothed, son of Prince Doran. Sansa found it in her to be glad that Myrcella would not wed a stranger, that she liked her future husband well enough to make a play-mate of him.

“Am I fit to see the Prince now?”

“Yes, I think so. One last touch.” 

Ellaria removed the stopper from an ornate glass vial and touched a drop of scented oil to the insides of Sansa’s wrist. The rest she combed into Sansa’s air, and the sweet fragrance of orange blossoms bloomed like a cloud all around her. Sansa sneezed.

“I must go and see to my own girls now,” said Ellaria, as Sansa stood up from the dressing table, smoothing the folds from her dress. “Prince Doran is waiting for you. Shall I call a maid to show you the way? The Prince’s solar is easy to find—walk to the end of the corridor and up the staircase, and his guards will be waiting to admit you.”

“No, please don’t trouble anyone, I am sure I can find my own way.” She had relaxed under Ellaria’s ministrations, feeling like a child playing dress up in borrowed clothes. Now she remembered that she was going to face the Prince of Dorne in this costume, and despite her flowing hair and trailing skirts she felt vulnerable, as though she would rather be wearing plate and mail. “Could you tell me, though, is…is Prince Doran angry?”

Ellaria’s eyebrows flew to her hairline. “Angry? With you? Why ever should he be?”

“I only meant…I know that it was Prince Oberyn’s decision to bring me to Dorne. I do not know…he did not say what his brother the Prince might think of it.”

Sansa had scarcely spoken to Oberyn since the night had had invited Tyrion and she to dine with him in King’s Landing. There, the three of them had sat alone in the room, and while the men hatched plots and argued terms, Sansa had picked at the hem of a linen napkin and waited for them to finish deciding her future for her. Prince Oberyn had never failed to show her kindness during their brief encounters on the journey to Sunspear, but she had been too ill to talk with him for very long. Certainly, they had never had another conversation like the one they in the godswood. Sansa had not so much as seen him since their arrival in Sunspear yesterday, though that signified little; she had seen no one but the women in the last two days.

Ellaria gave her a rueful smile. “Prince Doran has a kind heart, and a cooler head than his brother. If he is annoyed with anyone, it is with Oberyn, but he will not hold that against you. He just wants to know you better. Be at your ease, little sister. No one is going to hurt you.”

Sansa nodded, casting her eyes down. She had learned in the capital that whenever she spoke to the King or the Queen Regent, or anyone who reported to them, it was better to make herself seem small, fearful, useless. _I’m stupid_ , she would think, over and over, until it scarcely mattered whether she really believed it or not. _It wasn’t true,_ Sansa thought, realizing now that she was finally free to think it. She had only to look at Joffrey to know which of them was stupid and which was not. Joffrey was a foolish, puffed up little boy who only got worse as he got older because no one dared to say no to him. Sansa was nothing like him. Yet there was comfort and safety behind her mask. Would she need it, here in Dorne? Would Prince Doran like her better if she spoke little, kept her eyes cast down, pretended not to have a thought in her head? Or would it annoy him to think himself saddled with a useless little girl who didn’t know anything, who barely understood what was happening around her?

That night in the godswood, Prince Oberyn had demanded truth from her, and Sansa, thinking she had nothing to lose, had lain one truth after another at his feet, feeling that she might as well—that she had nothing to lose. She still wasn’t certain she had acted rightly. Prince Oberyn had not seem pleased by what she told him. Yet his manners had remained gentle, and in the end, he had risked much on her behalf. If he truly thought her useless, surely he wouldn’t have bothered?

Sansa wished it were Prince Oberyn she were going to see, instead of his brother. She would like to see the younger prince’s face once more, read the expression in those dark eyes as he gazed down at her. Her time in King’s Landing had taught Sansa how to read a great deal into men’s looks. Unlike women, men did not learn to guard their expressions as carefully as they guarded their speech. That was how she had learned to manage Joffrey, after a fashion, by studying the faces he pulled. But she had not had time to learn Prince Oberyn’s face yet.

Sansa walked with Ellaria to the door, then through the antechamber that led to the corridor. Ellaria’s gentle hands gripped Sansa’s shoulders as she turned her in the right direction, and Sansa was surprised by how much comfort she took in that touch. If only they could go back to the room, while away the hours together there. Sansa would like to feel those strong, gentle hands stroke her hair. It had been years since anyone touched Sansa for any reason, save to hurt her. She did not realize how much her body hungered for gentle, kind touches.

“Remember, now. I do not think Doran will be cross with you, but if he seems so, you must not take it to heart,” Ellaria said. “The pain sometimes makes him cross with all the world. But he is too wise to blame you for that. Go on.”

Sansa nodded. Ellaria released her, and Sansa’s shoulders felt cold where her hands had warmed them. _I am the daughter of Lady Catelyn Stark,_ Sansa told herself, making her back and shoulders straight, folding her hands just above her navel, as Septa Mordane had taught her so many years ago. _My father was Lord Eddard Stark. I will not be ashamed._

She was just as glad for the long, billowing skirts of her new dress as she started down the corridor. They covered the holes in the points of her slippers, which had grown so worn during her journey that her toes were nearly visible through them. Was that for the best? If Doran saw her looking like a beggar in spite of all his charity, would he feel compassion, or would be repulsed?

If only she could be honest. If only she need not weigh her every word, her every gesture, always guessing at the consequences, knowing her future depended on the whims of strangers. _All my life I have tried to be good, and dutiful, and obedient,_ she thought bitterly, feeling the hard marble floor through the paper thin soles of her shoes. _But that is no longer enough. I must be the person they expect me to be._ But what sort of person was that? 

 

_Oberyn_

When Oberyn had finished his morning bath, he strapped his belt and dagger at his waist and turned to the glass, tugging his surcoat into place. His brother meant to speak with Sansa Stark this morning. Oberyn had not been invited to attend that interview, but he meant to be there, all the same.

Since that night in the godswood, Oberyn had scarcely had a spare moment to speak with the girl he had stolen away from King’s Landing. He regretted that; he ought to have visited her tent more often on the road, but she had needed a great deal of rest, and he had had much to do to smooth the path of their hasty journey. Had she been dismayed by his distance? Had she worried that she had placed her trust in the wrong man? Oberyn had not forgotten, and likely will never forget, why she had approached him in the gardens that night after the feast. He did not think she continued to harbor such dark thoughts, but all the same, he had cautioned Ellaria that Sansa ought to be watched. There were blades enough in the camp, even the women’s tents, for one to find its way into Sansa Stark’s heart, should Sansa Stark so wish.

Now they were arrived in Sunspear, he would neglect her no longer. Weary though he had been during his interview with Doran, he had not missed the thrust of his brother’s point. By day’s end, Oberyn expected to find Sansa Stark his betrothed wife. The match suited him well enough; why should it not? She was beautiful, her rank a match for his own, and there would be time enough for them to come to know one another. The betrothal itself might dismay her, but she would be at ease once she understood that that their engagement would be a long one. Oberyn would take her for a walk later in the day, help her understand what the years to come held for her. He would tell her anything of himself that she wished to know, and he would come to learn what pleased her, what might bring a smile to those sad lips. 

Oberyn’s attendants knew that he preferred to wait upon himself in the mornings, so he was left alone with his thoughts as the sun climbed higher in the east. Often, at this hour of the day, he visited the sept to make his daily supplications. Prayers he raised, to the Stranger and the Maiden, for his sister’s repose; to the Warrior and the Smith, for aid in his schemes; to the Father and the Mother, for the safety of his family and his children. To the Crone, he only ever offered respectful silence. Her far-seeing eyes had always unnerved him; whatever it was that ancient lady saw in his future, he was content that she should keep her secrets. 

Today, however, prayer would have to wait on business. There was not only the audience with Doran and the conversation with Sansa to get through. Doran had decided that, as Sansa’s presence in Dorne was Oberyn’s doing, the work of keeping her there would also be Oberyn’s responsibility. That, at least, was what Oberyn took Doran’s meaning to be, when he handed into Oberyn’s keeping a letter bearing the seal of the Hand of the King. 

Fair enough; Oberyn could not argue with his brother’s judgment. And yet Oberyn was no diplomat. Doran knew perfectly well that Oberyn had few words for the likes of Tywin Lannister. But ravens were not strong enough to bear anything heavier than paper across such distances, so words, not spears, must be his weapon in this contest.

Lannister was too clever for threats outright—not now that the entire capital knew his younger son’s marriage had remained unconsummated for so many months. It would be bribes them. But what could a Lannister possibly offer Dorne at this late hour? _Gregor Clegane’s head, for Sansa Stark?_ Oberyn’s stomach clenched. No; he had made a sacred vow. If Sansa had been in peril when Oberyn snatched her away, her honor would be as good as forfeit if he sent her back now. 

_And for myself, I would not part with her_ , he thought. He admired Sansa Stark; or at least, he admired the maid he had spoken to in the godswood, cunning and careful and wise as she was. She deserved better than to be traded like chattel.

When the sun had risen a little higher, Oberyn set out from his chambers towards the solar where Doran saw visitors in the mornings. Ellaria had promised to tell Sansa the way, but Oberyn hesitated at the intersection between two corridors, where Sansa would pass by if she took the most direct route. If Sansa was not yet entirely comfortable in his presence, still, she knew him better than she knew his brother. She might take comfort in having an escort. 

Oberyn leaned against a column, examining his nails, the picture of nonchalance, ready to fix a smile to his lips when she appeared. He did not have long to wait. Soon he heard footsteps. Not the slow, hesitant tread of a stranger lost in an unfamiliar place, but quick, light steps—hasty, on the verge of breaking into a run. Oberyn straightened. Then he heard it: a man’s voice, harsh and echoing in the marble corridor, followed by a soft cry. 

Oberyn’s hand flew to the hilt of his dagger, and he waited to hear which direction he must run.

He nearly did not recognize Sansa Stark when she pelted down the hall past him. She was clad in one of Ellaria’s light gowns, and her hair streamed like a banner behind her. Oberyn called her name, but she did not stop. He began running after her then, but her pace only quickened; no doubt she thought she was being pursued.

_She doesn’t know where to flee_ , Oberyn realized. He watched as she took a corner that led nowhere, save for the small sept that was reserved for the use of his family. He slowed his approach; there was nowhere else for her to hide down that turning, and if he made haste, he would only frighten her more. 

With noiseless steps, he followed the sound of her breathless weeping until he found himself standing before the shrine of the Stranger. Sansa Stark sat curled in a ball at the statue’s feet. Her long hair fell in curtains that veiled her face, and she clutched at the god’s pedestal, as though hoping to bring the stones toppling down over her.

“Lady Sansa.” Oberyn paused to kneel a few paces off, his back bent low enough that they might see each other face to face, if only she would look at him. He would have gathered her into his arms, but he thought it might only scare her more. “What has happened? What has frightened you?”

She gasped—not in fear, he thought, but in hunger for air. Roughly, as though impatient with her own tears, she used the hem of her dress to mop at her face. Oberyn saw that her fair skin was blotched red with weeping. Otherwise, he saw no mark of violence upon her. Yet, her right hand clutched at her left shoulder, fingers crushing the delicate silk along the neckline. He realized then that her gown had been torn, and only her frantic grip kept the trailing pieces together to preserve her modesty. 

Oberyn took in the sight of her, aghast. _Who would dare?_ he wondered, his blood growing hot. No Lannister agent sent to abduct her would have given up so easily, but what else could it have been? Surely no man of his own household valued his own life so cheaply.

“Be easy, child,” he soothed her. “I will call Ellaria. She will see you back to your rooms.”

“I beg you would not trouble yourself.” Sansa’s voice was hoarse, but she rose to her feet, crossing her arms over her breasts. “There was no true danger. Do not be alarmed.”

Sansa spoke carefully, as though her every word were selected to put him at his ease. But the effort was wasted; Oberyn scarcely heard her. He could not tear his eyes from the ruin of her gown. He recognized the garment now. He had made a gift of it to his daughter the Lady Nymeria once, years before. Doubtless she had long since outgrown it. 

“On my way to the Prince’s solar, I encountered someone I knew—someone I did not expect to see here,” she explained. “The white cloak startled me. I thought—I thought for a moment he must have been sent by the King, to take me back to the capital.” She shook her head. “It was stupid of me. I ought to have remembered.”

Only one man in Sunspear wore the white cloak of the Kingsguard—Ser Arys Oakheart, who had accompanied the Princess Myrcella Baratheon to Dorne when she was betrothed to Oberyn’s nephew. Oberyn could understand Sansa’s surprise, but not her fright. Nor did her explanation account for Ser Arys shouting at her, or how her gown came to be torn.

“Daemon,” Oberyn called, and an instant later Daemon Sand stood at his side. “Find Ser Arys Oakheart and bring him to me.”

There were limits to how far a prince of Dorne might chastise a knight of the Kingsguard, Princess Marcella’s own sworn shield. But Arys would answer for his actions all the same. 

Sansa sank again onto the stone bench. Her back was straight, but her shoulders were hunched. Uncertain what else to do, Oberyn took a seat beside her, hesitating a moment before tucking his left arm into his. Since that night in the godswood, he had never been certain that any touch of his would be welcome to her. Yet, as they sat together before the god’s shrine, she seemed to lean ever so slightly into the warmth of his shoulder. One heartbeat, then another, and another, and as the moments passed Oberyn grew increasingly aware of a fearful ache lodged deep in his heart.

_I care for her_ , Oberyn thought, surprised. Doran would laugh at him; Ellaria would make herself sick with mirth. After all, Oberyn had dared danger and bloodshed and diplomatic warfare, all to bring Sansa Stark to Dorne. _Why should any man risk so much for a maid unless he felt tenderly towards her?_ Doran’s voice whispered in his head.

Yet this was a new thing, Oberyn was certain of it. He had felt little for Sansa Stark the night she came begging the Stranger’s mercy of him in the godswood. That night, and many nights thereafter, he had been thinking only of Elia, so blinded by Elia that all he had seen when he looked at Sansa Stark was another maid whose innocence the Lannisters meant to destroy. 

If his feelings for her had changed, it had happened no more than an instant ago, when Oberyn had offered her the shelter of his arm and she had accepted it.

_Is this all that is required to bind a man to a woman for the rest of his life?_ he wondered. _A little trust, nothing more?_ He remembered well how he had come to love Ellaria, and it had not been like this. But then, Ellaria was nothing like Sansa. 

Oberyn had grown so lost in his thoughts that he did not hear the footsteps approaching at first. Then Daemon turned, spear at ready, and Arys Oakheart appeared. He stood before the Stranger’s shrine, back straight yet expression humbled, and bowed.

“My apologies, Prince Oberyn, Lady Sansa,” said Ser Arys. “I should have been here the sooner.”

Sansa grew rigid as a plank under Oberyn’s arm. He tightened his grip and kept his seat, unwilling to be parted from her.

“It is said that my niece thinks highly of you,” Oberyn told Ser Arys. “For her sake, I will hear what you have to say. But mind you do not distress the lady.”

Ser Arys opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Sansa extricated herself from Oberyn’s arm and rose from the bench. The movement brought Daemon’s eyes to sweep over her, and an instant later he had removed his short cloak and offered it to Sansa with his eyes cast down. 

Sansa hesitated a moment, then thanked him quietly, unfolding the amber cloth and wrapping it around her shoulders. It was done in a moment, before Oberyn could stir himself to assist her, and he had to stifle his irritation with himself. He ought to have found covering for her long before now. He was all but dimwitted this morning.

“Allow me to speak first,” Sansa said, her voice gentle, yet firm. “Prince Oberyn, I can attest that Ser Arys intended me no injury. Of all the Kingsguard, I believe he is the noblest, the truest knight among them. I have no doubt he serves Princess Myrcella faithfully.”

Oberyn looked from Sansa to Ser Arys, whose complexion was yet green and sickly. Then he too got to his feet. “It seems to me that the Lady Sansa shields you, ser,” Oberyn said.

Arys looked grateful for the excuse to avoid Sansa’s gaze and meet Oberyn’s eyes. “She does at that. The Lady Sansa has always shielded me, though it is more than I deserve—I, who never shielded her, though it was my duty as a knight and a man.”

Sansa took a deep, wavering breath. “Ser, you need say no more,” she said, almost pleading. “What is past is best forgotten.”

“But I must speak, Lady Sansa.” A blush climbed upwards from the neck of Arys’s armor. “I do not know how to ask your pardon, so I must speak the plain truth.” 

He turned to Oberyn again. “Less than an hour ago, I crossed paths with the Lady Sansa on her way to the Prince’s solar. She cried out when first she saw me. I too was startled, for I had not heard yet that the lady was arrived here. In truth, she was the last person I expected to see.” His posture became, if possible, even more rigid. “When—when she shied from me, I was ashamed. I wished her to understand that she had nothing to fear from me, not here. Then she turned to flee. I—I feared what she would say of me if we parted thus.”

Arys took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “When she would not stay to hear me, in my desperation, I clutched at her gown. It was cravenly done, and yet it was an accident. I only meant to stay her a moment. I did not mean to—to shame her.” His entire face was red now, the deep, purplish-red of mortification. “I would have given you my cloak, my lady. That was why I followed you, not to frighten you, but to make amends.”

Oberyn did not speak. He did not trust himself to loose his tongue. His fingers clenched around his dagger, and he dared not move, lest the dagger unsheathe itself. 

“What was it you feared she would say of you?” Daemon said. 

“It wasn’t his fault.” Sansa’s voice was stronger now. “Ser, believe me, even in King’s Landing, I knew your mind. You are of the Kingsguard; you were sworn to obey Joffrey’s commands, even if those commands dishonored you.” Oberyn watched her shoulders rise and fall, as though she were short of breath to speak. “The others…I sometimes thought they took pleasure in my pain. But I never thought so of you. You were as courteous as you dared be.”

As though from a long way off, Oberyn heard Daemon questioning Arys, his voice angry. Oberyn had questions of his own for Ser Arys, for Sansa too, but distraction swept all thought and speech from his mind.

Whilst she had wept, Sansa’s hair had fallen forwards across her face, leaving her shoulders and the back of her neck exposed. Oberyn had needed something to remind him _why _his dagger must remain at his hip and not in his hand, so he had allowed his eyes to trail down the back of that long white neck, down the straight column of her spine.__

__He had been mistaken, he realized now. She was no child. Her body was a woman’s, and her patience, her gracious manners, those of a great lady. It was not her tender years that made her unready to be a wife. It was something else—something in the way she looked at every man, even Oberyn, as he might at any moment strike her, shame her, humiliate her._ _

__Eddard Stark had not taught her to fear men thus; Oberyn would wager his life on it. This was some bitter lesson she had learned in the Red Keep. Yet she had been the betrothed of the king, and then the wife of the Imp. And the Imp, Sansa had sworn, had ever been kind to her…_ _

__Without thinking, Oberyn trailed his fingers over the bare skin of her lower back. There, he found what he was looking for: a thick line of mottled flesh, a scar that overlapped a second scar, and a third._ _

__Sansa jolted at his touch; Oberyn removed his hand instantly. His heart kept a calm pace; his thoughts slowed as they sometimes did in the heat of battle. _I know scars of this sort_ , he thought. _I know the weapon that bites thus.__ _

__A moment passed—a strange moment, in which Oberyn could see a dozen scenes play before his eyes, as though he had been given the second sight: Ser Arys on his knees, Daemon’s dagger red with the knight’s blood, Sansa’s weeping echoing down the halls once more._ _

__Then Sansa reached for his hand—the hand knotted around the hilt of his dagger—and looked up at him. She was tall, she did not need to look up so very far to meet his eyes, but when Oberyn bent his head to see her better he saw the steel in them. She shook her head—the movement so short, so still that he might have missed it, had he had eyes for anything in the sept other than her._ _

__He could not say how much time passed before he tore his gaze from hers and looked again upon the two men who stood awaiting his judgment. But by the time he lifted his gaze, the haze had passed, and when he looked at Ser Arys he saw nothing more than a weak man who had once been the tool of a weak and vicious king. Oberyn sighed, loud and long. He removed his hand from his dagger and twined his fingers with Sansa’s. She squeezed them tightly, as though it were he, not she, who needed the comfort._ _

__“Ser Daemon,” Oberyn said. “Escort Ser Arys to my chambers. Keep him company while you wait. Have some wine.” He grinned. “I will attend you shortly. First I must see Lady Sansa safely conveyed to my brother.”_ _

__Daemon half-turned, waiting for Arys to take the lead. After a final, pained glance in Sansa’s direction, Arys did so. Oberyn waited until both men had rounded the corner and were well out of sight before he spoke again._ _

__“My brother waits,” he said to Sansa. “But he will not grudge us a moment more, if you require it.”_ _

__“I am well, Prince Oberyn.” Sansa brushed her hair back over her shoulders. “But if you need a moment, I am content to wait with you.”_ _


	3. Chapter 3

_Sansa_

Tremors were working their way down Sansa’s legs, threatening to turn her knees to water, but she dared not betray any weakness. Prince Oberyn was watching her closely—for signs of distress, she thought, which would provide him with an excuse to rush after Ser Arys and bury his dagger in the knight’s breast. She must not give him such an excuse. She must be strong, even if she felt like weeping. 

It was so strange. This was what she had thought she wanted, back when she was a stupid little girl thrilling to tales of helpless maidens and the valiant knights who came to their rescue. Never, then, had she considered all the other ways that such stories might end—the stories about the girls who were carried off far beyond the reach of their gallant knights, and what happened to them after. She was stupid not to think of it. Her own father’s sister, her aunt Lyanna, had been carried far from her home, just like a maid in a tale. And though Ned Stark had indeed ridden after her, he had been too late. There was nothing waiting for him when they found her but a bloody bed, nothing to carry back to Winterfell except for Lyanna Stark’s bones.

Sansa wasn’t a child any longer. She knew now what it meant when men fought each other over a woman’s honor. It meant _this_ —proud Prince Oberyn of the House Martell, trembling with wrath, a hair’s breadth from gutting poor, foolish Ser Arys and spilling his innards all over the clean marble corridors of the palace. Yet why should Ser Arys die? Why should Prince Oberyn desire it? It could not protect her from beatings that had taken place two years ago. That was past mending. 

Perhaps, if it had been Prince Oberyn, and not Tyrion Lannister, who had stopped Ser Meryn from shaming her before the court all those years ago…perhaps _then_ she would still have a little faith in the old stories. Sansa could almost see the prince as he might have looked, had he been there that day—striding into the throne room, tall and imposing, with that careless grin that only made him look more dangerous. She pictured the sea of spectators parting to let him pass, the prince stooping to cover her with his cloak, carrying her off to a faraway land where her every hurt would be mended. _That would have been very like something from a favorite tale._

But in real life, things always happened in the wrong order. The prince arrived long after the maid had to learn how to protect herself, and by the time he offered to vanquish her enemies in a storm of righteous wrath, it was far too late. All the real villains were fled, or slain by other hands, or else they were no villains at all, only weak men, and fools.

 _This is why we have the singers,_ she thought. _Someone has to put the story in its proper order, or there would be no happy endings at all._

“Your eyes…” Prince Oberyn was looking down at her. There was something lost, almost helpless in his expression. “They are full of thoughts. Will you tell me what you are thinking?”

What should she say? Would the truth offend him? Would it matter if it did? “I am thinking that I hope Ser Arys survives the interview that awaits him in your chambers.”

A frown creased Prince Oberyn’s brow. “Is his life truly worth so much to you?”

“Life is always worth something,” she murmured. 

_Prince Oberyn is not like me,_ she realized suddenly. Sansa had already lived the sort of tale that no singers wanted to sing about. But the prince had not. He had only been Sansa’s age, or a little older, when his sister and her children had been murdered. Somewhere deep in his heart, he believed that if he could only punish the people who had hurt her, the hurt would be undone, and Elia would live again. People believed strange things, sometimes. 

“I betrayed my father to the Queen,” she found herself saying, surprised how easily the words came, as though the horror had been worn away by time until only truth was left, lodged next to her heart like a smooth river stone. “I was the one who persuaded him to confess to treason, and that was all the excuse Joffrey needed to cut of his head. I don’t ever want to see a man die again. No matter what he’s done. Even to me.”

“Lady Sansa.” She had forgotten that Prince Oberyn was still holding her hand until he lifted it, pressing it to his chest, covering it with both his own. She had no choice but to turn and face him then.

Prince Oberyn was handsome. Everyone said so, yet whenever she had looked at him before all she had seen was a warrior—one of the most dangerous men in Westeros, people said. All fighting men looked alike to her now. She could no longer distinguish the sell-swords from the knights, save by the costliness of their armor. 

But the prince was more than his spear-hand, she realized now. His dark eyes were soft and bright, and the lines that crinkled at the corners suggested that he smiled and laughed often, though he looked sorrowful enough, gazing down on her.

Prince Oberyn wore no armor. He had only the dagger at his hip. Sansa had stayed that dagger, she remembered, clutched at his hand to keep it still, and though he could have thrown her off with no effort, he had allowed Sansa to stop him. What did that say of him, that he had allowed himself to be ruled by a woman—a maid of thirteen, who was no one to him?

 _Too sentimental,_ Sansa thought. She could not afford to start spinning stories anew, just because a prince of Dorne was looking at her as though she were something precious, something to be protected.

“Joffrey is dead,” she said, her tone short. “Ser Arys serves King Tommen now. A man like Ser Arys can be a true and noble knight, under a king such as Tommen.” That was all that mattered now—containing the threat, moving on. She would rather have Arys haunting the palace than another of the Kingsguard whose mind she did not understand so well.

“It is a weak man who would obey an order that dishonored him, whatever vow he had sworn,” said Oberyn darkly.

“Would you kill every weak man in Westeros?” said Sansa, impatience getting the better of her. “What about the women? We are all weak, so they say. How can you trust any of us?”

Prince Oberyn looked at her for a long time, then sighed loudly. 

“I do not believe there is anything of weakness in you, my lady. Moreover, I think you are too clever for the likes of me, and I had better confess myself beaten and retreat from this contest.” 

Sansa permitted herself a small, private smile, turning her head aside so he would not see. It was something, after all, to have her judgment respected. She could not remember the last time anyone had taken her words so seriously. Possibly it had never happened before.

Oberyn extended his arm, presumably in the direction of Prince Doran’s solar. Sansa’s knees were still watery, so she accepted his offer of support and allowed him to lead her onwards.

“When first we met, that night in the godswood, I thought it was the fear of some future insult that you sought to escape.” His voice was soft, careful lest any servants overhear. “Now I understand better. You had already known years of suffering before you came to the end of your endurance.”

That was not precisely true. There was endurance left in her aplenty, for some things. Sansa had scarcely feared the promised rapes—after all that Joffrey had already done to her, there was nothing worse he could offer, only more of the same. The panic that had sent her to the gardens that night, seeking the most famous poisoner in Westeros, had come from the thought that she might bring a babe into the world—a babe who would surely be plucked from her arms as soon as he drew breath. Her son would have been raised a Lannister, a stranger to her, despising his northern blood. What would they have made of him? Another Joffrey, perhaps. That was the thought that had turned her mind to high embankments and deep blue waters and, eventually, tiny bottles of dreamless death. 

“Joffrey ordered his knights to beat me when it pleased him.” She felt the old terror surge briefly before remembering, _Joffrey is dead, I can say what I like about him now._ “I scarcely think on it anymore. Smallfolk are beaten every day—serving girls younger than me are whipped bloody, for no reason at all.” That was a lie; she thought of such things frequently. “But in truth, I was always grateful when the duty fell to Ser Arys. He left only the lightest of bruises, as little as he could get away with.” _And I will be annoyed if you kill him for that,_ she did not say.

Oberyn was silent for awhile. “I will not make you speak of these matters any longer,” he said. “But when I see Ser Arys later, I will remember all you have told me. Is there anything else you would ask me now that we are alone? I regret that there was so little opportunity for us to speak while we were traveling. Anything I can do, anything I can tell you, I am at your disposal.”

Sansa gratefully seized the opportunity for a change of subject. “I confess that I have been wondering what Prince Doran intends to say to me. After all, I came to Dorne without his foreknowledge. I am sure my presence here has created…difficulties for him. I asked Ellaria whether he might not be angry with me.”

Oberyn’s steps slowed, but did not falter. “I hope Ellaria told you that was not the case,” he said. “My brother knows you are an innocent. He would never begrudge you our hospitality.”

“I do not know that I am an innocent.” It was easier than she had thought it would be to speak freely to him, almost as though they were back in the godswood, where nothing had mattered, save life and death. “But I am a maid, at least. I must be married suitably, sooner or later. Sooner, probably, if Prince Doran is to quiet the confusion I left behind me in King’s Landing.” She hesitated. “Is that what the Prince wishes to speak to me about?”

“Perhaps so.” Oberyn glances at her. “Does the thought frighten you?”

Sansa could not help but tense, and Prince Oberyn, holding her arm, could not help but feel it. “Speak your heart to me, my lady, and I will not betray you,” he said.

He had been as good as his word so far, Sansa thought.

“Since I was old enough to think on such things, my lady mother explained to me that marriages amongst the highborn were made to secure alliances,” she said carefully. “I am not certain what alliance I might bring to Dorne. My father is dead; my brother is dead. I am the heir to Winterfell, but the Boltons hold it now.” _And in any case, what does Dorne care for the North?_

“Is it truly a question of alliances which troubles you now?”

It was, at least partly. In King’s Landing, her position, her very safety had depended on the marriage portion she had to offer her husband. She had been treated like a princess when first they arrived, the Queen’s own little dove, Joffrey’s cherished lady. All of that had changed overnight after her father was arrested and news of Robb’s rebellion had reached the south. Sansa had good reason to wonder how highly Prince Doran might value her dowry—how much he might value _her._

But Prince Oberyn was partly right, too. Sansa had to wet her throat before she could continue, but there was something in the prince’s manner that encouraged confidences. Littlefinger had something of that same quality— _whisper to me, confide in me, I am the only one in the world you can trust,_ his manners always seemed to say. Yet with Prince Oberyn, Sansa didn’t feel as though she ought to be examining the apple for the vein of poison inside.

“My mother always told me that my father cared greatly for my happiness, that he would be sure to promise me to a man who would love and honor me.” Her poor father had known so little of Joffrey—while King Robert lived, Ned Stark had seen him only as the son of his oldest friend, and by the time he learned better, it was too late. “But he was my father. I have no family now, and I do not see why—why anyone should think of my happiness anymore.” Tywin Lannister certainly hadn’t, though his own callousness had backfired on him in the end. _Poor Tyrion. I hope he managed to talk his way out of all the trouble he must be in for letting me go._

“Lady Sansa.” Prince Oberyn’s steps slowed nearly to a halt. His fingers trailed down the back of her sleeve. “The night we met, do you remember what you said to me?”

Sansa blinked. “I believe I said many things.”

“You said you had a favor to ask of me,” he said. The prince’s expression was intent. “You said, that though you had no way to pay me, you would beg it of me nonetheless. As a mercy.”

She looked aside, unable to withstand the heat of those dark eyes. “I did say that.”

“I denied you that mercy.”

“You helped me escape,” she protested.

“But that was not what you asked for. You asked for release from all the burdens of life, all of its dangers and uncertainties. Instead, I stole you away, to Dorne, to new uncertainties. Why do you imagine I did this?” 

Sansa could tell that Prince Oberyn was trying to say something of importance to her, but she was too ill, or weary, or stupid to divine his meaning, so she just met his eyes, waiting for him to continue.

“I will tell you the answer. I brought you to my home because I wanted you here. Not for your marriage portion—not even to annoy your husband’s family.” Oberyn squeezed her hand. “You owe us nothing. There is no debt to be paid. All I desire for you is that you find happiness with us.”

There was a horrible thick knot lodged deep in Sansa’s throat. She swallowed until it went away. _He truly is just like a knight in the stories,_ she thought, _but he is not the ruling prince of Dorne_. “And is that what Prince Doran desires?”

Prince Oberyn sighed. “You are the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, beautiful and clever and gracious. One day you will be a great lady—the greatest of them, perhaps.” Oberyn gave her a crooked smile. “My brother is the Prince of Dorne, and you are correct in thinking that he must consider the good of kingdoms, as well as men, when he makes his judgments. But think on this as well. Though you have lost your lord father, my brother is a father as well, and a most loving uncle to his nieces. He will not forget that you are only a maid of thirteen, a maid who has known much sorrow and many hardships.” He touched her chin lightly. “Do you believe me?”

Sansa’s hand clutched at Ser Daemon’s cloak where it covered the tatters of her bodice. “So far as I know you have never lied to me.” 

“No. Nor will I.” Oberyn’s grip tightened on her elbow. He nodded to a point just ahead of them, where four short steps led to an expanse of marble floor and a door flanked by two armored guards. “We are here. Do not be afraid. I will stay close.”

 

_Doran_

“Brother!” Oberyn proclaimed from the doorway of Doran’s solar. “Greetings to you on this fair morning. Forgive our tardiness, we were delayed.” 

Doran, his chair in its usual position facing the balcony, smiled to himself. It was the Lady Sansa he had sent for, not his brother, but clearly the Lady Sansa had arrived on Oberyn’s arm. Curious, that Doran had not distinguished her footfalls; he had heard Oberyn’s when he was still at the foot of the stairs. 

“I heard something of this delay,” Doran replied gravely. “All exaggerations, I hope.” 

_The Lady Sansa has been violently assaulted by Ser Arys Oakheart!_ the serving girl who brought his tea and bread had reported. _He pursued her, swearing passionate oaths, until Prince Oberyn threatened to cut his throat!_

 _No, my lord Prince,_ said the boy who had been trained by the maesters to change Doran’s dressings in the mornings. _Ser Arys only tripped over that great white cloak of his, and caught hold of the lady’s gown by accident. In his clumsiness he tore her bodice right down the middle. She had to flee for her chambers, clad in only her shift!_

Doran had sent Areoh Hotah to inquire into the truth of the matter, and he had reported only that the Lady Sansa had been seen weeping and disheveled in the sept, and that Ser Arys Oakheart was presently confined in Oberyn’s chambers under the guard of Ser Daemon Sand. Whatever had led to these events, Doran could have wished the lady’s morning had been less eventful. It might have been easier to speak plainly and sensibly with her if she had she not been upset—and if she had come alone. But naturally, Oberyn would not have left her without an escort if she were out of sorts.

Doran felt a shift in the air that meant Oberyn was standing directly behind him. “May I assist you?” his brother said, resting a hand on the back of Doran’s chair.

“No, I thank you. Be seated; the balcony is pleasantly shaded at this hour of the morning.”

Oberyn made a soft, sighing sound, as though he thought Doran stubborn, and walked around to face him. At his side stood a girl, tall and slender with sheathes of copper hair that tumbled in waves from the crown of her head to the tips of her fingers. Oberyn held her hand aloft, the gesture strangely formal; but then, Oberyn had always had a courtly away about him, when it suited his mood.

“First I must introduce you,” said Oberyn. “Allow me to present the Lady Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

Sansa Stark’s curtsey was a neat, graceful thing. As she dipped and rose again, Doran’s eyes moved over her, bottom to top. He noted her tattered slippers first, with the toes peaking out of the worn places; then the pale blue gown that had once belonged to one of his nieces, he could not remember which. The amber cloak she clutched to her breast belonged to Daemon Sand, if he was not mistaken, so some part of that ludicrous tale regarding Ser Arys was probably true. Doran wondered why she had not changed her clothes afterwards. Did she have so much fear of him that she would suffer herself to be presented in rags, rather than make him wait another quarter-hour? 

“Lady Sansa,” Oberyn continued, “this is Doran, ruling prince of Dorne. He is a wise and loving lord to our people, and truly, my favorite of all my brothers.”

Sansa Stark blinked with wide, cool blue eyes. Doran recognized the signs of a highborn child frantically reviewing everything her septa had taught her about House Martell and its senior members, trying to remember which of their brothers she had forgotten.

“Forgive him, child,” said Doran gently. “Oberyn japes.” 

“But you are my favorite brother,” said Oberyn lightly. “I am sure you would be no less, even if you had competitors.”

Doran lifted an eyebrow, but Oberyn only smiled. There was something anxious behind that smile; Doran knew it had to do with Sansa Stark, but beyond that, he could not penetrate its meaning.

Doran returned his attention to Sansa and nodded his greeting from his chair. “You are most welcome in Dorne, Lady Sansa,” he told the girl, who blushed instantly. “Truly, the rumors of your beauty have not been exaggerated. Please sit and be comfortable. I am anxious to know you better.”

Sansa dipped her head and arranged her skirts carefully, before taking a seat on a chaise that was positioned just a little lower than any other seat in the room. At the table behind her, Oberyn was pouring wine. It was early in the day for Doran’s more effective potions, to say nothing of wine—early for Oberyn as well, now that he no longer drank from sunup to sundown. But Oberyn came away bearing only one cup, and it was into the girl’s hands that he placed it.

“Drink,” he said to her, in a gentle voice. Doran could not remember ever hearing his brother speak in such a voice to anyone save his own daughters. “It will calm you.”

To Doran’s eyes, Sansa Stark appeared perfectly composed, her disarrayed clothing notwithstanding. But she did not refuse the cup. Now that he looked closer, he saw that her eyes were red, a bit swollen. She drank deeply, and Doran noticed that her hand was trembling. Oberyn took the cup away from her, but when he started to fill it again, she shook her head. 

“Prince Doran, please allow me to say how very grateful I am, both for your hospitality, and for the great kindness which everyone in your household has shown me since my arrival,” said the girl, her voice pitched low. “I am very glad to meet you at last. I hope you are well this morning.”

Doran was impressed. Most persons, seeing him for the first time in his chair, seemed to think it would be more courteous to pretend that his affliction did not exist. Those who did ask after his health rarely managed to do so with any grace. 

“I am tolerably well, I thank you,” said Doran. He was still clear-headed, at least, which counted as a good day for him. “I hope you are beginning to recover from your journey. Dorne sees few visitors from the North, and our climate does not always agree with them.”

“I slept for a long time yesterday,” she admitted. “But Ellaria brought me a salve, and I am quite comfortable now.”

The amber cloak she wore no doubt hid the burned and peeling skin she had acquired on the road. But her posture betrayed no discomfort, unless it was by its utter correctness. Doran had himself learned how to disguise pain and weakness from the sight of strangers; he wondered where Lady Sansa had learned it.

“You have met Ellaria, then?” Doran kept his voice casual, avoiding his brother’s suddenly keen stare.

Sansa looked surprised. “She looked after me all during the journey south, and she helped me to dress this morning. She is the kindest of ladies. I would have been lost without her.”

Oberyn chose that moment to arrange himself in a lounge across the end of the chaise next to Sansa. His arms were spread wide, but Sansa’s limbs were neatly compressed, and she occupied so little space that they did not touch. Doran could not tell whether she kept away from Oberyn on purpose, or whether she was merely in the habit of making herself as small as possible. Judging from the soft glance Oberyn sent her way, however, his brother did not seem to feel that she was avoiding him.

“I thought that you meant to train with Obara this morning,” Doran said. “Otherwise, naturally, I would have asked you to join us.”

“I train with Obara for pleasure, not because she has any great need of my instruction. This is a more pressing matter. She understood.”

“A pressing matter?” Doran glanced at Sansa, whose eyes were trained firmly on the mosaic floor tiling. “I thought it was only an introduction.”

Oberyn did not reply, but his mouth pressed into a tight line, indicating his displeasure. 

“My guard tells me that Ser Arys Oakheart is confined in your chambers under guard,” Doran prompted. 

“He is enjoying my hospitality and drinking my wine until I have made up my mind what to do with him.” Oberyn shrugged. 

Doran gritted his teeth quietly, then changed tactics. “Lady Sansa, I understand that Ser Arys served in the Kingsguard while you were still…a guest of the Queen Regent in King’s Landing. He was known to you, then?”

Oberyn’s posture changed slightly. Doran knew quite well that if he were anyone other than Oberyn’s brother, the shift would have been the precursor to a threat. As it was, Oberyn merely made a face as though he had just bitten into an unripe lemon.

“Yes, my lord prince.” Sansa’s voice did not falter. “Ser Arys was well known to me in King’s Landing. All of the Kingsguard were.”

“Perhaps Ser Arys is…an unwelcome reminder of things past?” Doran prompted gently.

Sansa looked down at her hands for a moment. They were neatly clasped in her lap, and for a moment Doran thought she would say nothing—which, in itself, would be an answer. Then she lifted her head, looking past Doran.

“I expect that I will remember my years in King’s Landing for the rest of my life,” she said. “However long that maybe…and wherever I am.”

Doran was surprised. Not by the sentiment, but by the correct, yet noncommittal way she had phrased it. It whetted a curiosity which had been growing over much of the last day and night—time that Doran had spent thinking over the story Oberyn told him about meeting Sansa Stark in a garden by night. 

Doran knew his brother better than any man alive. He knew, therefore, that in certain ways, Oberyn might almost be called easy to manipulate. Doran had wondered, in passing, whether someone had sent Sansa Stark to that garden and told her exactly what to say. He had also wondered—if more fleetingly—if Sansa Stark, a maid of not-yet fourteen, might be clever enough to have figure out precisely what to say all on her own.

Doran neither doubted Sansa Stark’s need for protection, nor regretted granting her refuge. He certainly didn’t hold it against her for not attempting to deal with either of them honestly. It would probably never occur to a maid of her age to attempt to make an alliance with Dorne, acting in her own right as the Heiress of Winterfell. And even if it did occur to her, she could scarcely send such a missive to Dorne under Tywin Lannister’s very nose. No, Doran merely wondered whether Sansa Stark had learned enough of men in her thirteen years of life—learned enough of _Oberyn Martell_ —to have wielded power over him in the only way the highborn women of the six kingdoms were ever permitted to wield power.

If it was a plan, it was a clever one, and Doran admired cleverness. She had done the thing faultlessly—presenting herself in the gardens by night, as though she intended a seduction, then arousing Oberyn’s guilt and his chivalry by shying away from him when he responded like a seducer. Invoking Elia’s specter had been a risk, but if she appeared innocent (and with a face like that, how could she do otherwise?) she would have stripped Oberyn of his defenses in a single stroke. And then, to ask him for her own death, and for such a _reason_? Intentionally or not, she had played Oberyn like a pipe. If she had not told him that Tyrion Lannister might be cooperative, Doran had no doubt that Oberyn would have perched her on the front of his saddle that very night and ridden for the Tor like the fires of the seven hells were nipping at his heels. 

A girl as clever as that might be very useful to Dorne, Doran had thought. Arianne would need advisors closer to her own age as she came into her own power. Another woman could be immensely useful to her. That was, of course, supposing that Sansa Stark did not mean to use her hold over Oberyn, over Dorne, to take back the North and avenge her family. If that was what she wanted, Doran was willing to consider it, depending on how the climates in King’s Landing and in Essos weathered over the next few years. But Oberyn might not like that fate so much.

The last possibility, that Sansa Stark’s entire exchange with Oberyn had been as artless and unfeigned as Oberyn obviously believed, did not trouble Doran either, from a political perspective. He suspected that Sansa was quite clever and astute, even if she wasn’t quite as precocious as the other scenarios would suggest. But from a personal point of view…

Oberyn was clearly already in love with the child, his very insistence that she not be married until she was of a more suitable age was proof of that. And if her sufferings in King’s Landing had been as bad as the worst that Doran had intelligence of, then his brother, whose heart was as tender as his temper was hot, was destined for a special torment. None who had suffered as Sansa Stark may well have suffered escaped without permanent scars, on their souls if not their bodies. Would she ever truly love his brother? Trust him, as Oberyn would long to be trusted? 

Doran was probably a fool to worry over such matters. Oberyn had Ellaria, after all, and she would soothe him. He was quite curious regarding Sansa’s easy acceptance of Ellaria. Highborn girls (and even highborn men) from the six kingdoms often found domestic arrangements in Dorne to be shocking, sinful even. Did Sansa embrace Ellaria so quickly because she wished to present no impediment to a quick betrothal to Oberyn? Or was Doran simply a cynical old man, overlooking the more obvious explanation—that a child deprived of father and mother, a child who had obviously known great cruelty, had simply taken to the first person to show her continued kindness in a very long time?

Perhaps that augured greater hopes for Oberyn’s happiness in the future. He had saved her, after all; he would cherish her like she was his hope of the Mother’s mercy. The girl might respond to that. 

“The Lady Sansa,” Oberyn drawled, making Doran realize that he gone much too long without speaking, “has already passed judgment on Ser Arys. She insists that his crimes go unpunished.”

“That is not precisely what I said.” Sansa directed a brief glare at Oberyn, and Doran restrained his smile.

“Forgive me, my lady. I should not have mocked your gracious and extraordinary forbearance. But my brother needs to know,” Oberyn looked at Doran without a hint of humor in his eyes, “that Ser Arys Oakheart will, if he is so commanded, beat innocent little girls for the amusement of his king.”

Doran supposes he ought to act surprised. “Truly? Did he harm you, my lady?”

“He beat her, at the foot of that iron chair, along with his fellow white-cloaks, who do not, I believe, carry willow-switches as part of their armament, and therefore must have used the flats of their swords.”

Sansa was extremely pale under the sun-blush of her cheeks. She looked angry, as though Oberyn had trespassed by speaking of it. A maid who sought to influence his brother should rather have wept—Oberyn was too distracted to notice her pallor.

“Princess Myrcella is due to visit the Water Gardens in two days,” said Doran, still watching Sansa. “When you have…dismissed Ser Arys from your quarters, you will instruct him to ride ahead and see to preparing the palace for the Princess’s arrival.”

Oberyn snorted. It was a job for a steward, or even a senior lady’s maid who also happened to be an avid horsewoman. Doran hoped the humiliation would distract Oberyn until his blood had cooled.

“Lady Sansa,” said Doran. “May my brother fetch you more wine?”

Only then did Oberyn look over and see the effect of his words. His entire posture changed, contrition in every line of his body. “I am sorry, my lady. My brother had to be told, but I should not have spoken of it before you again. I am thoughtless, at times.”

He looked as though he might have said more, had Doran not been in the room. But Sansa looked down and aside at him and gave a tiny shake of her head, a brief smile. _She has already learned how to forgive him_ , Doran thought, and somehow the thought pained him.

“As it happens, I heard a story told of you, Lady Sansa, from some who kept vigil with you during Stannis Baratheon’s siege of King’s Landing.” It was, in fact, the first story about Sansa Stark that Doran had taken any note of, and it was the reason he had inquired more deeply into her background afterwards.

“What story, my lord prince?” Sansa frowned, but she only looked confused, not worried or frightened.

“Did she repel Stannis from the Blackwater with a forbidding look and a flaming sword?” said Oberyn, obviously relieved to be changing the subject. “I would have no trouble in believing it. She is fierce, this Northern lady. What do they call them, beyond the Wall—a spearwife?”

“Yes, but I am not a Wildling,” said Sansa, with just the slightest eye-roll. “And I spent the entire siege in Maegor’s Keep, with the Queen Regent and the rest of the highborn ladies and the men who did not fight.”

“Ah, but the Queen Regent left, I heard,” said Doran. “For what reason I do not know, but I am told her departure was taken as a sign that the battle was lost and the keep overrun. The servants fled, women wept, old men pissed themselves for fear. And do you know what I heard happened after that?”

Sansa’s confusion seemed, if anything, to deepen, but Oberyn looked greatly interested.

“I heard that a young girl—a maid of no more than twelve years—took the Queen’s place and comforted the panic of the people,” said Doran. “I heard that she arranged for the care of the wounded, commanded the obedience of the fleeing servants, and reminded the women of the Mother’s mercy. She even led them in a hymn, I believe.”

“And then I sneaked away and hid in my room, where Sandor Clegane was waiting for me. He threatened to kill me, then offered to take me out of the city.” She spoke as though she had been shocked into revealing more truth than she had intended. “It was a…a difficult night for everyone.”

“Clegane?” Oberyn hissed, and for an instant everyone in the room froze, except for Areoh Hotah, who turned fractionally in their direction.

“Sandor was a strange man,” murmured Sansa. “But he was the only member of the Kingsguard who never beat me, not even once.”

Oberyn’s head whipped back sharply, eyes blinking rapidly, as if he’d been hit on the nose. Sansa didn’t even seem to notice that she had flummoxed him completely.

“My point,” said Doran, which made both Sansa and Oberyn look at him as though they had forgotten he was there, “is that your behavior was extraordinary. You exemplified courage to the people, restored order and discipline to a panicked crowd, and preserved the wounded. The greatest of ladies—your own lady mother—could have done no more. I only wondered whether anyone had ever told you as much.”

Sansa looked down and blinked—one, twice, then many times in succession. Doran’s mouth twisted, and he removed his handkerchief, extending in Oberyn’s direction. Oberyn’s eyes looked to be burning, but he took the cloth quickly enough and presented it to Sansa wordlessly.

“You…you are too kind, Prince Doran,” she said.

“I am sorry, Lady Sansa. I have overtaxed you. My brother and I will retire next door for a few moments. Please drink more wine, if you feel need of it.”

Oberyn looked at Doran as though the last thing he wanted to do was leave the girl’s side, but Doran stared at him inexorably. Oberyn brushed his fingers across the back of Sansa’s hand, then stood and pushed Doran’s chair into the lounge adjoining the solar. He was annoyed with him, Doran knew, yet Oberyn maneuvered the chair as deftly as ever, taking care to cause as little pain as possible.

“I had not heard that story before,” said Oberyn softly.

“Clearly, it would never have occurred to her to tell anyone.” Doran waved toward a window. “Here. Sit with me.”

Oberyn perched on low padded footstool, looking up at Doran, just as he used to before Doran took to his chair. Doran studied his brother’s eyes for a moment—heated, and just a bit lost—before he spoke.

“I had hoped to broach this subject today or tomorrow, but I think the Lady Sansa should have a few untroubled days to clear her mind before I put any decisions to her,” said Doran quietly.

“What decisions?”

“There are questions I would ask her—about her home, in particular. But the principle question, at least for the moment, is whether she will consent to a betrothal.”

“With whom?” Oberyn’s posture was rigid.

“Would you suffer it to be anyone but yourself?”

Oberyn’s mouth worked furiously for a moment. He looked left, then right, the folded his hands, pointing two of his fingers at Doran.

“You agree to a long engagement,” he said.

“I did,” said Doran.

“She will be sixteen before I will wed her. If she wishes to wait until she is seventeen, she shall.”

That was a little longer than Doran had intended, but after all he had learned this morning, he saw the benefit of it. “Agreed.”

“After we are married, there will no consummation until she extends the invitation.”

“Agreed,” said Doran, easily.

“And I want to ask her myself.”

Doran tilted his head, curious. “Do you lack faith in my diplomacy, brother?”

“I do not wish to present it to her as a matter of politics,” said Oberyn between clenched teeth. “Since her father’s death, she has known only the worst of men. If you propose it to her, she will agree. She believes that her life and honor depend on pleasing us with her obedience.”

“She will have time enough to understand that she is safe.”

“Not if we begin thus!” Oberyn raked his hands over his face. “When Tywin Lannister ordered her to marry the Imp, she married the Imp. Two months later, she came to me in the gardens asking for a painless end to her suffering.”

“Does she still speak of ending her life?” Doran frowned.

“I have had so little opportunity to speak to her that I cannot say of what mind she may be. But I know that she will stop at nothing to escape a trap. I will not be that trap.” Oberyn heaved a long sigh and continued in a softer voice. “She is now a ward of our House. I can use that to keep Tywin Lannister quiet for a month, at least. I will use that month to know her better—have her know me better. She will have time to make up her mind.”

Doran stared at his brother for a long time. “You are only the second son, you know. She is the Lady of Winterfell. Give her a month to think it over, and she might realize she can do far better than you.”

Oberyn lifted his head sharply. He blinked, and then they both laughed.

“We should return. She is probably getting nervous.” Oberyn rose, laying a hand on the back of Doran’s chair.

“She is a remarkable girl,” said Doran.

“She is. But she is like a soldier who has seen too many battles. She is wounded.”

“You will care for her,” Doran said, both command and assurance.

“Gods be good, I will.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Sansa_

Sansa had been in the Old Palace in Sunspear for nearly three weeks when the mockingbird appeared in her chambers. It was only a little bird—a silver and white-enameled hair clasp, subtle, costly, and exquisite—but the sight of it turned her body to stone.

She didn’t know how long the mockingbird had been there. Her chambers had been rather bare when she arrived, but Sansa owned many lovely things by now. She had received an entire wardrobe from the Princess Arianne, along with a number of ornaments and small jewels that Ellaria kept insisting Sansa “borrow”, though she would never accept when Sansa tried to return them. The mockingbird might have got lost among Ellaria’s gifts—or it might have appeared only the night before. Sansa had no way to be certain.

She had found the hair clasp because she had gotten lost in thought, looking at the small silver bowl that held all of her new jewels, thinking about all the gifts that she had received over the last few weeks. Oberyn’s daughter Tyene had sent Sansa a beautiful inlaid wooden casket containing a dozen skeins of colorful silk thread and a set of gilded embroidery implements—needles, thimbles, a pair of tiny pointed scissors shaped like a golden crane. Another of his daughters, Obara, had given Sansa a pair of small daggers in a finely tooled leather case. From Prince Trystane, she had received a small harp and some music.

Prince Doran’s gift had rivaled Arianne’s. A few days after their first meeting, Sansa had returned to her rooms to find that a small but beautifully carved writing table had been installed next to her dressing table. The dozens of tiny drawers were filled with parchment, quills and a blade to sharpen them, inks in different colors, sand and blotting papers, scent, and wax. Atop the desk, in its own box, there had been a small but lovely signet. It wasn’t the massive seal that the lords of great houses used to secure their letters—it was much smaller and daintier, more appropriate for a lady’s personal correspondence—but its metal face was carved in the shape of the direwolf of House Stark. Sansa’s heart had surged into her mouth when she saw it. Her mother had possessed a small signet not unlike it. She wondered if Doran knew that, somehow.

There were shelves fitted atop the desk, which proved to be useful, because every so often, Doran sent her more gifts—small piles of books, usually one volume of tales or poetry to two volumes of history or heraldry. It made Sansa feel like she was Maester Luwin’s pupil again, struggling to absorb the contents of one dense text before the next one arrived. When the books didn’t stop arriving, she became certain that the Prince had a purpose for cramming her head full of so much knowledge. But she didn’t mind. No one in King’s Landing had cared much for learning. Girl’s Sansa’s age came to court ready to be married, happy to have left their letters and lessons behind them. Sansa would rather feel like a child at her lessons again than keep on pretending, as she had had to do in the capital, to be as sophisticated and elegant and _knowing_ as a real grown up lady. Such pretense had been exhausting—especially since Sansa was quite certain she never fooled anyone anyway.

She would have had a difficult time accepting the overwhelming generosity of House Martell, Sansa had thought as she sorted idly through Ellaria’s glittering ornaments, if it weren’t for the fact that she knew it wasn’t really about _her_. Oh, they were kind people—they would have been kind to her if she’d been a kitchen girl, Sansa was sure. But Sansa wasn’t a kitchen girl. House Martell’s generosity was calculated, because it had to be. Sansa understood that, because she had watched the Lannisters doing the same thing with her for the last three years.

After Sansa’s father was murdered, Sansa had been provided with decent clothing and comfortable rooms, because it was important, for the Lannister’s sake, that she not _look_ too much like a prisoner. They needed her name and her blood to make the North bend the knee again, and the loyalty that the Stark name inspired might very well have backfired on them if they’d sent Sansa back to Winterfell as a Lannister bride, looking as if she’d only just crawled out of one of the black cells under the Red Keep. But Sansa’s father and brother had defied the crown, so they had to keep Sansa humbled as well—otherwise, it might appear that the Lannisters feared her family, feared their vengeance. Sansa’s gowns were always just a bit plainer, a bit more behind the fashion, than the gowns of other ladies her age. Her slippers _always_ pinched. And she was scarcely ever allowed on horseback, which was why the journey to Dorne had made her so weary.

Then, of course, Sansa had escaped King’s Landing and fled to Sunspear to beg sanctuary of House Martell. Once word of _that_ got out, every greater and lesser house in the seven kingdoms must have looked to Sunspear to see what the Martells would do with her. _This_ —the gowns, the apartments, the servants, the jewels, even the direwolf seal—was how the Martells had chosen to answer. They did not need her the way the Lannisters needed her and yet, they acknowledged her claim as the Lady of Winterfell. Prince Doran would not have given her the direwolf signet otherwise, she was sure of it. The Martells were treating her as though they wanted nothing more in the world than to restore the honors and privileges she was born to as the eldest daughter of a great house. And all of Westeros was watching them do it.

Sansa wasn’t entirely certain why she was so highly honored in Sunspear. But it proclaimed one thing so obviously that no one could miss it: that House Martell was strong enough to protect her, to keep her, no matter how much the Lannisters wanted her back. 

Over the last three weeks, Sansa had almost begun to believe it herself—to think that Oberyn and Prince Doran and Princess Arianne between them would be able to keep her here, keep her safe. But, now, she realized, she had been naïve. There was a mockingbird in her jewels, and the longer Sansa stared at it, the more certain she was that it hadn’t been there the previous morning. Her collection of glittering trinkets was small. Petyr Baelish’s understated signet stood out.

When Sansa’s maid, Mira, came to dress her hair an hour or so later, Sansa was still seated at her dressing table, looking at the mockingbird. Sansa liked Mira because she was kind and she never made Sansa talk when she didn’t want to talk. Mira seemed to be able to tell just by looking at her when Sansa wanted to be quiet.

Today, Mira looked at Sansa and asked her if she was ill.

“No,” said Sansa quietly. “I am well. But I need you to go to Ellaria and tell her that I won’t be able to join her this morning after all.”

“Very well, milady,” said Mira. “Shall I give a reason?”

“Yes,” said Sansa. “Ask her if she knows where Prince Oberyn might be at this hour. I would beg an hour of his time, after I’ve broken my fast.”

 

*

Oberyn gave Sansa gifts too. But Oberyn’s gifts were different from his brother’s, from Arianne’s. They were more like Tyene’s embroidery casket, or Trystane’s harp—small, personal items to amuse her or help her pass the time. And instead of having them sent to her rooms, he always gave them to her in person. Sansa had quickly realized that he took a boyish pleasure in seeing her reaction, in receiving her thanks. 

Some of the jewels that Ellaria pressed upon her were also from Oberyn, Sansa suspected, but that was because he knew she was made uncomfortable by extravagance. His most lavish gift to her had been a horse, a beautiful grey mare named Jonquil. Sansa had fallen in love with her too quickly to put up a convincing fight, but she had had to keep her face buried in Jonquil’s mane for a long time before she could stop crying. Oberyn had seemed pained by that, and his gifts had been more moderate since.

Sansa’s feelings towards Oberyn were a strange tangle of guilt, gratitude, affection, and wariness. The latter wasn’t his fault; Sansa didn’t know how not to be wary of people anymore, especially princes and kings. But the better she knew him, the easier it was to drop her guard. In King’s Landing, she had studied him from a distance for many days before deciding to approach him. Oberyn had struck her as an honest man—honest in a way that few men were, in the capital. He had seemed too brash and impulsive to take much pleasure in skulking and secret intrigues. If she approached him honestly and openly, Sansa believed, he would hear her out. And if, afterwards, he were willing to give her what she needed, he would tell her right away—no trading in favors, no blackmail, no insinuated threats. Even if he were not willing, Sansa thought Oberyn would probably keep her secrets, as a point of honor. But if he hadn’t kept them…well. Sansa had planned for that possibility, too. 

She had come to know Oberyn much better over the last three weeks, of course, and in some ways her estimation of him had changed. Here, in his home, he was much more thoughtful, more reflective, than he had appeared in King’s Landing. He _was_ hot blooded, and impulsive, but she saw him as open-hearted now, rather than brash. He disdained all pretense and dissimulation when he among the people he loved and trusted. Sansa found his direct manners to be a relief. She had been in painful suspense all during the long weeks of their journey, wondering what sort of place Dorne was, what sort of person she had gambled her life on. Oberyn had been quick to relieve her suspense after their return. Since her formal presentation to Prince Doran, Oberyn had begun to seek her out almost daily. They had spent a great deal of time together, especially in the first week, while Ellaria was away with her girls at the Water Gardens.

Walking with Oberyn, talking with him, riding alongside him…it was strange. He was of an age with Sansa’s parents’—older, even—but his manner towards her was neither fatherly nor lecherous, which confused Sansa, because she had scarcely known that men could be anything but one or the other. He _did_ remind of her father, in certain ways, but Sansa realized that was only because Ned Stark had been the last man who treated her like she was worth listening to, who seemed able to care at all for her without also trying to possess her. 

She could not help comparing Oberyn to other men she knew—it was the only way she could make any sense of him. He was gallant, like Joffrey had been in the beginning, but unlike Joffrey his gallantry was more than a shallow pretense. He was attentive, like Littlefinger had been after Joffrey cast her aside, but he never made her feel stupid, or spoke to her in that smug way that made it seem as if every word he said had a second layer of meaning she could never hope to unravel. He was as knowledgeable as many maesters, but she never felt as if he were lecturing her. And he was protective of her. Robb and Jon had been that way too, but she was their little sister, and their idea of protecting her was to keep her shut up safely inside of Winterfell. Oberyn, by contrast, encouraged her to go wherever she liked, to venture into Sunspear and shop in the markets, to drink spiced wine by the water’s edge and watch the mummer’s shows. If she met with any insult while she was out in public, she didn’t think he would blame her for straying from the protection of the castle. But she knew he might very well hurt the man who had offended her, so she was always careful to stay close to Mira and their armed escort, just in case.

Sansa knew that it was only a matter of time before Prince Doran called her in for another interview, this time to discuss her future in Dorne—marriage, in other words. And she suspected that Oberyn was trying to prepare her for that somehow. As if it made any difference whether she was prepared; she depended on the Martells for everything, she would have to do whatever she was bid. Sometimes, she wanted to shout at Oberyn, make him understand that he didn’t have to be so delicate about it. She wasn’t a child; she understood how things worked. 

But the last thing she wished to do was repay Oberyn’s kindness and generosity by offending his pride, or hurting his feelings, so she held her tongue. She had been wrong about him in the past, after all. Sansa understood now how badly she had misjudged him in King’s Landing. He was far too tenderhearted to have ever given her what she had asked him for. Either she had been too desperate to see that, or his mask had been too convincing. And once she understood that, she also understood, at last, why he had brought her to Dorne. It was because she hadn’t given him any other choice. Knowing the danger that awaited her in the capital, he would never have left there. And having brought her to Dorne, what could he do now, but marry her? 

Sansa wondered if he ever regretted it. He had no need of a wife, after all; he had Ellaria, they had been together for fourteen years, they had _four daughters_. Sansa scarcely saw what use she could ever be to him. She wondered sometimes if he felt trapped. Maybe all their conversations, all his attentions towards her, were for his benefit as much as they seemed to be for hers. Maybe he just didn’t want to marry a stranger. Sansa could hardly blame him for that.

But despite all of Sansa’s uncertainties, and regardless of how tangled her feelings were, one thing was certain: Oberyn had gone out of his way to make himself the best friend she had in Dorne. There was no one else here she knew half so well, not even Ellaria or Tyene. Indeed, he claimed so much of her time that she only saw the other women in the mornings and after dinner. Perhaps, in the secrecy of his own heart, he did consider her a burden, but if so, he had been too honorable to betray it. And because of that, he was now the one person in Sunspear she trusted above all others.

So it was a great relief when Mira returned from Ellaria’s rooms and told Sansa that Prince Oberyn had been present when she delivered the message, and that he would come to her rooms within the hour. Sansa nodded and thanked Mira, then sat quietly while the maid brushed her hair and gathered it in a braid. Afterwards, she helped Sansa into one of her new gowns—a light linen of silver-grey that breathed in the heat, but still managed to cover all the parts of her she wanted to keep covered. Arianne had ordered all of her gown made thus. Sansa hadn’t even had to ask her.

Just as the hour turned, there was a polite knock on the door of her rooms. Mira went out to the antechamber and returned swiftly to announce Oberyn’s arrival. Sansa thanked Mira, and dismissed for the morning, then went to greet him.

“Good morning,” Oberyn said, smiling. “Do you know, I don’t believe you’ve ever sent for me before? I was so intrigued that I felt compelled to come at once.”

“I’m very grateful,” she said, and it was nothing but the truth. “I hope I’m not taking you away from anything.”

“Not in the least. Shall we have a walk? Is there somewhere in particular you would like to go?”

“Wherever you think best,” she said, trying to return his smile and finding it a strain. “So long as it’s…somewhere you think we won’t be overheard.”

Oberyn looked startled, but he said nothing more, only offered her his arm.

 

*

“I expect this will seem a silly question,” Sansa said, once Oberyn had led them to an isolated garden bench, far away from any high hedges or overhanging trees. If not for the early hour of the morning, the heat and light would be unbearable, so far away from the shade. But the sun was still low on the east side of the castle, and there was a cool breeze stirring the waters of the reflecting pool nearby.

“I expect the opposite,” said Oberyn lightly. “I can’t recall a single time you’ve ever asked me a silly question.”

The instinct to deflect Oberyn’s quiet statement of confidence was almost overpowering. She was already thinking it, _No, I’m stupid, really,_ when Oberyn reached over and squeezed her hand. He _knew_ what she was thinking. He was the one who had asked her not to say such things out loud any longer. 

“When I think of what you have endured, it makes me angry,” he explained, though he only sounded sad when he said it. “I should be able to rule my temper, but it sometimes gets the better of me, and I don’t want to frighten you.”

Sansa was grateful for that. He _did_ frighten her, sometimes, by accident. Even a brief flash of his temper had proven enough to make her nervous and tearful for the rest of the day. Oberyn, naturally, was grieved with himself when he upset her, so he had quickly learned to be careful around her. It was only fair that Sansa be careful of his feelings too, though she only partly understood them. 

She knew what it felt like to burn with anger and hatred towards the people who had hurt her family, but the idea that Oberyn felt the same way about her only made sense on paper, like a sum: one true knight plus one sorrowing maid equaled…whatever it was Oberyn had felt that day in the sept, when he had seen the scars on her back and responded by gripping his dagger until his knuckles turned white. Sansa could read the evidence of his emotions, but she couldn’t truly _feel_ them, not the way she could feel and share his fury and his grief for poor Princess Elia and her children. It was as if the part of her that once believed she was the same as other people, deserving to be protected, had been burnt out of her, leaving a dead place behind. She wished it were otherwise, if only so she wouldn’t make any more stupid blunders—like the time she had told Oberyn how Joffrey had forced her to look upon her father’s head on its spike. That had been the first and the worst of the times Oberyn had frightened her. He had sprung out of his chair, pacing back and forth, and while Sansa had sat frozen, he had suddenly roared something unintelligible and thrown a wine goblet against the wall. Sansa couldn’t fully remember what had happened next. When she had come back to her senses she had been huddled on the floor against the opposite wall, and Oberyn had been standing on the other side of the room, watching with a helpless look on his face as one of Maester Caleotte’s assistants urged her to drink something sweet.

She didn’t want to upset Oberyn today. She didn’t want Oberyn upsetting _her_ today. Sansa squeezed the mockingbird in her hand until its sharp little wings cut into her fingers, and tried to think how she should proceed.

“I was just wondering,” she said, “about the way we left King’s Landing. I…I wondered if Lord Tywin knows that I’m here now.”

“He does,” said Oberyn simply.

“And…has he asked Prince Doran to send me back?”

“He has asked, and he has been refused.” Oberyn sounded very calm about it.

“But surely he didn’t just…ask once, and then forget all about it.” Maybe, if she had met Oberyn during those brief, uncertain days between Joffrey’s betrothal to Margaery Tyrell and her own marriage to Tyrion, Lord Tywin would have let her go as more trouble than she was worth. But he couldn’t let the matter simply drop now, not when she had been his own son’s wife.

“The matter has been under discussion since your arrival here,” Oberyn admitted. “But it doesn’t matter how many times he asks. The answer is the same. We will not give you up.”

Sansa felt a strange flutter in her stomach, but she ignored it. “If he knows you won’t send me back, do you think he would…” She twisted her fingers together, looking out over the water. “Would he try to _make_ me come back, somehow?”

Oberyn frowned. “This is why you wished to speak with me today? You have never asked about these things before. What has made you so worried?”

“It’s probably nothing,” she said, miserably. She _knew_ it wasn’t nothing, of course, yet something always compelled her to say things like that. In King’s Landing it had been expected, but Oberyn actually _listened_ to her, so why couldn’t she just speak what she meant? 

“Allow me to decide that,” said Oberyn firmly. “Tell me what is on your mind.”

“Nothing, only I…” Gritting her teeth, Sansa took the plunge. “Would…would Lord Tywin… _send_ someone to bring me back to the capital?”

Oberyn was quiet for a few seconds. Then he lifted his long legs and rearranged himself on the stone bench so that he was seated sideways, facing Sansa.

“I’m sure the thought has crossed his mind,” he said, not taking his eyes off her. “But he has many rebellious lords much closer to home, and for now he dares not take his eye off them. Any attempt to remove you from Sunspear by force would have very grave consequences for the crown. He will not risk antagonizing Dorne in such a manner. Not for a long time.”

Oberyn was thinking of an army, marching from King’s Landing in force. Sansa was thinking of a man who worked in the shadows, who sailed his small, swift vessel from one dark harbor to another—a man who had nothing but contempt for pointless displays of might.

“What if it wasn’t by force?” Sansa made herself ask. “What…what if it was by stealth?”

Oberyn smiled—then, abruptly, he stopped smiling, and his relaxed posture took on the tension of new alertness.

“Sansa,” he said. “Look at me.” 

Obediently, Sansa lifted her eyes from beneath their lashes. She saw Oberyn studying her, taking her measure, and it was too much. She was too unsettled to force her composed mask into its place. She looked down again, but Oberyn reached for her shoulders and turned her, gently, so she was facing him. He looked at her for a moment longer, then tilted his head back and gave a small sigh.

“These are not formless fears,” he said with a certainty. “Something has happened. You have seen or heard something to make you think you are not safe.”

Even though Sansa had asked to see him this morning for no other reason than to tell him what she feared, the ease with which Oberyn could see through her was terrifying. She had studied nothing in King’s Landing the way she had studied to become inscrutable, unreadable. If she lost the ability to hide her feelings, there would be nothing to stop Oberyn, or anyone else, from seeing the truth—that she was a stupid little girl who was frightened of everything, _all the time_.

Well, no. Not everything. Sansa wasn’t afraid to die. But that was the whole trouble. All of these _people_ , they _wanted_ her for different reasons, and none of them would leave her alone, none of them would just _go away and let her die—_

“Sansa, Sansa, don’t.” Oberyn’s grip on her shoulders tightened, and only then did Sansa realize how hard she was breathing, how unbearably tight her chest felt. “Hush now. Be easy. You needn’t say anything. I am sorry.”

Sansa shook her head—a negation, or an apology, she wasn’t sure which. Irritably, she wiped at her eyes and tried to take deep breaths.

Oberyn rose from the bench. “Wait here,” he said, and then he was striding out to the reflecting pool a few yards away. Through wet, stinging eyes, she watched him kneel at the water’s edge for a moment. Then he came back to her, taking his seat again. He was holding a small flask, small enough to fit in the pocket of his tunic, along with a handkerchief embroidered in the Martell colors. 

“Drink,” he said, handing her the flask, and Sansa realized suddenly how dry her mouth was. She put the flask to her mouth; it held cool water, but she could taste the brandy that had been in the flask before Oberyn had emptied and refilled it. Then Oberyn pressed his hand to the back of her neck. She felt something cold, and realized that he had dipped the handkerchief in the water as well. Her eyes fluttered shut with relief. The weight of his hand and the coolness of the wet cloth felt like the only real things in the world. 

They sat thus for a long time. Sansa had no sense of how long, precisely. She was able to rule her breathing again, but her face felt prickly, like her arm did when she slept on it wrong. Oberyn said not a word, but neither did he move, and Sansa wished, just then, that all the years of life that remained to her could fit, somehow, into this moment. She would never again have to move, or speak; she could just sit, and breathe, and be safe.

Gradually, she began to feel normal again. The world around her returned, with its birdsong and breezes and the sun that was climbing higher in the sky by the moment. Sensation returned to her hands and feet. The cloth against her neck was no longer cold; Oberyn’s hand had warmed it through.

Sansa felt a stabbing pain in her right hand. Confused, she opened her fist. The mockingbird sat in her palm, and she realized that she had been holding it so tightly that its sharp beak had cut into her flesh. There was a little blood smeared across the white enamel bands on its silver wings.

Sansa lifted her head, and saw that Oberyn wasn’t even looking at her. He was gazing out over the water, his expression still and calm; something about the way he was looking at nothing at all made her wonder if he was at prayer. But he seemed to feel her eyes on him. He turned to look at her, and Sansa, who had reached the end of all her excuses and all of her reasons, held out her hand to him and opened her fingers.

Oberyn’s brow creased, and he tutted her name softly. _He sees only the blood,_ Sansa realized. She took the mockingbird between her finger and thumb and offered it to him again.

“What is this?” Oberyn turned it over, prodding the catch at the back that would trap a few strands of hair together. “A mockingbird…”

“Do you not know the sigil?” she said.

Oberyn looked at her, his entire face a question. Yes, he knew it, she could tell. Why did he only look confused?

“I found it amongst my jewels this morning,” Sansa admitted. She could not help tensing, fearing what would follow once he understood. “It…it wasn’t there yesterday.”

Oberyn squinted. He looked down at the mockingbird, turning it this way and that, so that the silver wings flashed in the sun.

“I…” It was unlike Oberyn to be at all hesitant in his speech. “I am afraid I do not understand.”

Sansa blinked at him.

“You believe that Baelish had this token placed in your rooms?” he continued. “I suppose he might have been able to accomplish that, but what purpose would it serve? Has he sent you gifts before?”

“I…no,” Sansa stammered. “But it…what if it means that Lord Baelish is _here_?”

Oberyn tilted his head. “You think that Lord Tywin may have sent him? I admit, to me, that seems unlikely. If Tywin Lannister were going to have you spirited out of Sunspear, I do not think he would choose Littlefinger as his agent.”

This was worse, worse by far than provoking an explosion of wrath. 

Sansa had no idea how to make Oberyn understand about Littlefinger. Oberyn knew so many things, she had just expected him to _know_ what Littlefinger was capable of. She had no proof that Petyr Baelish had ever harbored ill intentions towards her—only her instincts, only his insinuations. 

“If you think my fears unfounded, I am relieved to hear it,” said Sansa, a little stiffly, averting her eyes.

“I did not say they were unfounded,” Oberyn corrected her instantly. “I said only that I do not understand them. But it is clear that you know more of Petyr Baelish than I do. What was it you said of him to me, at our first meeting?”

Sansa considered lying, pretending not to remember. 

“I said that he had plans for me.” She rubbed idly at the bloody pinpricks in her palm. “I don’t know—I never knew—what those plans were, precisely. It suited him to only imply things, to make me guess and wonder and…and fear.” She took a shaking breath. “He watched me, all the time. He was careful that no one else would notice that he was watching me.” _If only he were a woman, he might understand,_ she thought helplessly.

“You truly believe that Lord Baelish would come all the way to Dorne, so that he might…continue to watch you?” Oberyn’s expression had darkened, but there was still a questioning light in his eyes.

Sansa turned her gaze to the water and found that she had to look away from the glare. The sun was high enough now that she could feel the back of her neck beginning to flush and burn. _I ought to have worn my hair down after all_ , she thought. 

“I don’t know what it is I fear,” she admitted finally. “But…I know that he wanted me. The way he wanted my mother.”

Something changed in Oberyn’s expression at her last words, and Sansa’s breath caught. _Yes, this is the way. He does not understand Littlefinger, but he understands desire._

“When Littlefinger was a boy, he was fostered at Riverrun. He and my mother and my aunt Lysa grew up together.” Telling the familiar story helped to calm her, because she did not need to choose her words so carefully. “He always loved my mother. When she was betrothed to my uncle Brandon, Littlefinger challenged him to a duel for her hand.” She rubbed at her own hand as she searched back through her memories, seeing connections she had never seen before. “Almost as soon as I arrived in King’s Landing, Lord Baelish came to introduce himself. But he never spoke to me when my father was near—he waited until I was with alone with Arya and Septa Mordane at the tourney.”

It seemed a lifetime ago, that tourney. More than that—all of her memories of it seemed to belong to another person. She no longer felt like the girl who had thrilled to see the Knight of Flowers victorious. The images in her mind were like pictures from a book of tales she had read long ago.

“The first thing Littlefinger said when he saw me was that I had the Tully look.” _And then he told me that Sandor Clegane was a monster who might very well kill me. Even then, he enjoyed my fear._ “He said it again when the Queen was deciding what to do with me after my father was arrested.” 

Sansa stopped. She felt sick, as though the oats she had eaten this morning were sitting badly in her stomach.

“Every time I changed the way I arranged my hair, he would make a comment. It…it was as if he wanted the excuse to touch it. To touch me.”

_I thought I did not know why I was afraid of him, but I did. I just didn’t know what I knew. He confused me until I could not see it._

Oberyn did not speak. Sansa did not look at him. She was afraid that if she did look at him, she would see nothing in his countenance but his former confusion. If he did not understand by now, there was nothing more she could say to him. She would be alone with her worries and her fears, with no one else to turn to.

After a minute or so, Oberyn reached for her hand—the one that had been clutching the mockingbird. From nowhere, he produced the damp cloth he had soaked in the water of the pool and used it to dab lightly at the small puncture in her palm, wiping away the blood.

“Do you think me foolish?” she whispered, without meaning to. She didn’t want to ask. She was still afraid of the answer.

“No.” Oberyn said, without hesitation. He kept dabbing at her palm, even though it was clean now. “I think you are very wise. Too wise. You have been made to know more of men and their wickedness than any maiden of your years should.”

Sansa pressed her hand to her throat and gasped, for relief. She was afraid she would start crying again, so she concentrated on breathing, feeling her own heartbeat. 

Before she knew what was happening, Oberyn’s arm had wound round her shoulders, pulling her sideways, making her lean against his chest. His other arm arose to encircle her, and when she began gasping again, she felt his chin come to rest atop her head.

He held her for a long time. Unlike before, when time had seemed to slip away, Sansa was conscious of every passing second. After she had been leaning against him for a moment, she started to sit up, certain that Oberyn would be better pleased if she dried her eyes and tried to be cheerful for a change. But Oberyn’s hold on her only tightened. He did not let her go, not then, nor a minute later when she grew embarrassed and tried to find the words to tell him she was well, truly. 

It was not until she realized that he meant to keep hold of her, and that she had no choice but to let him, that she truly began to relax. A few more tears fell, but mostly she felt limp, like she was floating on water, trusting it to buoy her up.

“When you left the godswood that night, I stayed after you for a time, listening, in case some trouble should befall you on your way back to the keep.” Her ear was pressed to Oberyn’s chest as he spoke, and his words sent reverberations through her whole body. “Even after I was sure you were safely away, it felt as though something held me there—as though I stood in the very presence of the old gods themselves. I was named in the light of the Seven many years ago, and yet, I found myself praying to them. Shall I tell you what I said?”

Sansa did stir, not to speak, not even to shrug. She understood, somehow, that she did not have to.

“‘Deliver her to me, and I will not fail her’. Those were my words. A holy vow, that I swore to the gods of your fathers.” His thumb rubbed slowly back and forth over a small patch on her shoulder. “They answered my prayers the night that we rode away together, with all the lights in all the windows of King’s Landing burning behind us. I did not know if I would ever see you again after you left me in the godswood, but the gods of your fathers gave you back into my hands.”

“I don’t know if I believe in the gods anymore,” Sansa murmured.

“Perhaps not,” said Oberyn. “But I do.”

*

_Oberyn_

Oberyn did not return to his chambers until very late that night. He had been busy, mostly with Sansa—she had felt as pliable and breakable as a doll in his arms by the time the sun’s glare chased them away from the reflecting pool, and he could not bring himself to leave her side until much later in the day. Even then, it was only to steer her into Ellaria’s rooms, where he knew she would be looked after by others.

The rest of the afternoon, Oberyn had spent walking from place to place, speaking to one man, then another, dispatching ravens, issuing orders to members of the prince’s guard, and finally, going to Doran’s solar—only to find that his brother was indisposed and resting in his chambers. Oberyn had written a short note, sealed it, and given it into the care of his brother’s steward, with instructions to see that it made its way into Doran’s hands the moment he awoke, no matter how much milk of the poppy he had swallowed.

Finally, he had set out on horseback, visiting inns and taverns throughout the city. Gold had changed hands, daggers had come unsheathed, and a little blood had been spilled. But after Oberyn returned to the palace for dinner, he found that his exertions had yielded the desired result. Daemon had come to his place at the table and placed a sealed note next to his plate. Oberyn had chosen not to read it at the table; Sansa was seated beside him, and he did not know what he would say to her, if the news were ill.

There was a second letter, this one bearing Doran’s seal, waiting on his desk when Oberyn at last retired for the night. He read it first. It was short; much shorter than the one Oberyn had sent.

_Tyrion Lannister is arrested for the murder of the king,_ Oberyn read in Doran’s crabbed writing. _Cersei Lannister believes that Sansa Stark conspired with her husband to poison him before her departure from the capital_.

The report from Sunspear’s master of harbors was even shorter. It simply read: _A mockingbird alighted in the royal dockyards yesterday week._


	5. Chapter 5

_Doran_

Doran had gone to bed late, after a long and miserable day, and when his eyes opened the next morning a man was standing over his bed, flicking cold water into his face. 

The looming figure was indistinct in the blue pre-dawn light. Instantly, Doran rolled for the dagger hidden behind his mattress, only to fall still when a familiar voice tutted his name.

“Gods be good,” Doran muttered under his breath. With an effort, he rolled back onto his elbows. Oberyn was grinning down at him dementedly, and in his right hand he held a water goblet.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” said Doran wearily. “Do that again and I will slit your throat.”

“I apologize, but we must speak. You dreamed all of yesterday away.”

Yesterday, Doran had been half out of his senses, and when he did sleep, it was not deeply enough to dream. “I was indisposed.”

“I know. Drink.” Oberyn thrust the goblet in his face.

“Why?”

“You need water.”

“When I need food, are you going to throw bread in my face?”

“If you continue to keep things from me, I might.” 

_Sansa Stark_ , Doran thought, already exhausted. He had lain an entire day in this bed, struggling through pain and potions so that he might think on the problem of Sansa Stark. And _he_ wasn’t even getting a new bride for his trouble. 

Doran let himself fall back onto the bed and draped an arm over his face. “Wake my manservant,” he said, resigned to the futility of repelling his brother from his chambers. “Send him for tea.”

Oberyn seized his bedcovers and threw them back, exposing Doran’s legs to the morning chill. “I will be your manservant this morning.”

“If you were my servant, you wouldn’t have thrown water in my face.”

“No. Then, I was your brother. Give me your hand.”

Sighing heavily, Doran reached for the hand he knew would be waiting. He let his brother pull him upright, and kept hold of him as he carefully put one foot, then the other on the floor. The inflammation had been worsening steadily throughout the week, and lately even the weight of the bedclothes had been almost too much for his foot to bear. Standing was a trial; walking, impossible.

“Where is my chair,” said Doran, gritting his teeth. “You are a terrible servant.”

“You can’t get to the privy without it?” 

“You think I wouldn’t rather walk?”

Oberyn looked displeased. “I didn’t realize it was that bad.”

“Why should you, does my maester report to you now?”

“Caleotte and I have been discussing your potion. It makes you sleep too much.”

“I take no more of it than I require,” said Doran, irritated by his own defensiveness.

“You don’t sleep as much when I make it for you.”

Oberyn turned to get his chair, and Doran sat quietly. He hadn’t realized that Oberyn still brewed any of his potions.

It took a few minutes for Oberyn to draw the water for his bath, and for Doran to use the privy. Getting in and out of the chair on his own was a complicated affair, but in this, at least, he suffered no one to assist him. 

He was chilled—too chilled, he thought, as he reached for his dressing gown after. It was only autumn. His body failed him in ways large and small, and he never knew if it was some new affliction or merely the years punishing him. 

Oberyn was sitting at the table across from a steaming tea tray when Doran returned to his bedchamber. He had thrown the curtains back, and the blue morning light was bright enough that Doran had no need of a lamp when he went to wash behind the screen. He left the clothes that Oberyn had set out for him and put on the dressing gown instead. When he finally maneuvered his chair over to the breakfast table, Oberyn poured a cup of tea for him. 

Doran drank the whole cup, slowly, before he spoke.

“By the looks of you, I slept better than you did,” he said. “And I slept miserably.”

Now that Doran was no longer flat on his back, he could see that the lines around Oberyn’s eyes and mouth were more pronounced than usual, and his hair was mussed. 

“I didn’t sleep,” said his brother.

“Didn’t,” said Doran, “or couldn’t?”

Oberyn said nothing, which was answer enough.

These were their customary roles—Doran needling, watching, Oberyn brooding, thinking. Doran supposed he should be flattered that his little brother still required him to relieve his black moods.

“If the knowledge you already possess is such a burden to you, I can scarcely be eager to tell you more,” he said after a moment.

“That is not why I did not sleep.” Oberyn did not look at him.

“I see. What, then? Lovesickness?”

“She is a _child.”_

“Is there anything the gods have made that is easier to love than a child?”

Oberyn’s head whipped around, and he peered at Doran, a storm gathering in his face. Doran met his gaze evenly, and bit by bit Oberyn relented.

“Petyr Baelish is in Sunspear,” he said heavily, “and I did not know until Sansa came to me yesterday morning. He had something placed in her rooms.”

Doran paused with his cup halfway to his mouth. 

Oberyn took something silver from the pocket of his tunic and sent it skittering across the table. Doran put his cup down and caught the mockingbird with his left hand, holding it to the light. 

“Sansa says it appeared yesterday morning. She takes it for a sign that the Lannisters have sent Baelish to steal her back to King’s Landing. I did not believe it at first, but the master of harbors says that Baelish has been here a seven-night already.”

Doran shook his head slowly, trying to fit this new piece into the picture. “Tywin Lannister would not trust Lord Baelish with such an errand.”

“No, but you say Cersei Lannister believes that Sansa conspired with Lord Tyrion to murder her son, and Sansa says that Cersei depends on Littlefinger.”

 _Sansa says, Sansa says._ If his brother’s little bride was to be providing him with his best information about King’s Landing from now on, perhaps Doran would save himself trouble and simply appoint her his Master of Whisperers.

“The queen would have to have taken leave of her senses to have Sansa Stark kidnapped from Dorne behind her father’s back. Even if she succeeded, she cannot possibly conceal the girl’s presence in the capital.” 

“ _If_ she succeeded in stealing Sansa, Lord Tywin would be just as pleased to have her back in his grasp. His annoyance with Cersei would not change that.”

“You assume that it is Sansa the queen wants, and not her head. Baelish might think it easier to simply have her assassinated.”

Oberyn’s mouth became a thin line. He tapped a few beats on the tabletop with his fingernail. 

“Cersei loves her children most dearly. If she is truly convinced of Sansa’s guilt, then she will want justice. If she cannot get it, she will settle for revenge, but she will not be satisfied with Sansa’s head in a box if she thinks she has a chance to watch it being cut from her body.”

Doran found himself impressed with his brother’s cool assessment. He knew it was not easy for Oberyn to put his fury aside—his passions gave him strength, and shielded him from the sharp edge of his fear.

“And even if she ordered an assassination,” Oberyn continued, “I doubt that Baelish would follow such an order.”

“Why?” Doran poured more tea, for himself. Oberyn had not touched his. “He does not carry a sword, but that is only because he is the kind of man who prefers to wield daggers in the dark.”

Oberyn stood from his chair suddenly and walked over to the windows. Doran could not see his face from there, which was doubtless why Oberyn had done it. 

“When I spoke to Sansa yesterday, she told me what Baelish was doing, but I did not believe her.” He touched the glass with the tips of his fingers. “So she told me things—things she did not want to speak of, things I didn’t want to know. By the time I finally understood, she was sick with fear. I dared not leave her alone, so I spent the whole day with her, until Ellaria returned from the markets. Then I rode out to look into the matter and found that she had been right, about everything. I lost an entire day to Baelish because I thought her merely nervous.”

“Perhaps from now on you should believe her the first time,” Doran suggested.

Oberyn’s hand fell away from the window. “Baelish will not have her murdered. He wants her for himself.”

It was just as well that his brother was on the other side of the room. Doran’s face showed his disgust before he ruled his expression.

“That is a complication,” he said. “One it is probably just as well the queen is not aware of. Baelish will be more cautious, if he is so tender of Sansa’s life.”

“What do you know of Lord Tyrion’s arrest? Do you think him guilty, is there any evidence?” Oberyn began to pace about the room, hands clasped behind his back. 

“It has been nearly a month since the king’s death. They had to arrest someone. I am only surprised they did not take him sooner.” Doran considered his words for a moment. “Ever since you abducted his wife from King’s Landing, Lord Tyrion has behaved most convincingly like a wronged husband. I am told he rails much on your treachery and Lady Sansa’s faithlessness. By all reports, he is much embittered against her for making a fool of him. Yet the case against him is that he murdered Joffrey in order to win her favor.”

Oberyn snorted. “The king died two weeks after I took Sansa from King’s Landing. Was poisoning Joffrey supposed to make me bring her back?”

“It is a weak argument,” Doran agreed. “As I understand it, the strongest evidence against Lord Tyrion is that he was spotted having private conversations with a man famous for his knowledge of poisons.”

That made Oberyn pause in his pacing.

“I suppose they intend to say that Lord Tyrion sold you his wife in exchange for some rare poison, and that, after he had proven his devotion to the Lady Sansa by murdering the king, he intended to make his way to Dorne, in order to win her back.”

“Is that what they mean to say?” Oberyn gave him a long look. “Why have I not been summoned to King’s Landing to bear witness against him? Why hasn’t Sansa?”

“If you think,” said Doran quietly, “or if Tywin Lannister thinks, that I would send my brother to King’s Landing to be implicated in treason, you have both gone mad.”

Oberyn and Doran looked at each other for a long moment, and the room was as silent as if the ghost of their sister stood between them.

“You say nothing of charges being brought against Sansa,” said Oberyn, turning away. “How did you come to know that Cersei thinks her involved?”

Doran sighed and pushed his chair back from the table. “There is a letter on my desk.”

Oberyn crossed the room as Doran moved his chair over to the window, where dawn was beginning to crest the horizon. The letter, which bore Cersei Lannister’s private seal impressed in black wax, was addressed to Sansa Stark, though of course it had come to Doran. It bore only a single line of writing.

“‘Your hands are as red as his,’” Oberyn read aloud. “What is this?”

He was referring, Doran knew, not to the words Cersei had written, but to the small scrap of red cloth fastened to the parchment with a pin.

“I suspect Lady Sansa will know. Someone will have to ask her.”

Oberyn ignored that. “Why a threat instead of a summons?”

“Because Tywin Lannister is no fool. I have been refusing his requests to return Sansa for weeks. If those requests become demands, matters will escalate, and he cannot know the outcome.” Doran folded his hands in his lap. “No doubt the queen’s…rash behavior is because she knows her father will not move against us.”

“Cersei risks much.” Oberyn’s tone was thoughtful, and no doubt he was thinking, as Doran was, that Myrcella Baratheon was in Sunspear, under his protection.

“Tywin Lannister knows me well enough to know that his granddaughter is safe in my care. Perhaps he convinced the queen of that. Or perhaps Lord Baelish is charged with fetching the princess home to King’s Landing as well.” 

Even as Doran spoke, he found himself discarding the theory. It was one thing for Cersei to entrust a man like Littlefinger with a girl she hated, but her own daughter was a different matter. Both girls at once would be a very delicate operation—one in chains, one free. Baelish would have to be a fool to undertake it, and he was not. 

“What would Lord Tywin have to say, do you think, if you sent this,” Oberyn waved the parchment with the cloth scrap, “back to him?”

“The gods know. Claim that it was forged. Dismiss it, perhaps, as the deranged act of a grieving mother. As threats go, it is rather vague.”

“There is nothing vague about Baelish.”

“I disagree. He has been here a week and done nothing save send the Lady Sansa a gift. Lord Tywin would not be impressed.”

Oberyn gritted his teeth—it was audible from across the room—but he did not argue.

“My servant would have brought me milk of the poppy by now,” Doran said, both because it was true and because he needed to divert Oberyn from his anger and frustration before he could change the subject.

“In the future your servant will be instructed that you are to eat first,” said Oberyn, as Doran knew that he would. 

He strode from the room to wake the boy who slept in the chamber beyond. Doran used his absence to maneuver his chair towards the cabinet where his potion was kept. By the time Oberyn returned, he was back at the window, and the fire was ebbing from his swollen foot. Oberyn was right that he had been drowsier of late, but the pain had been worse, so he had not cared. He could still attend to the affairs of Dorne.

When Oberyn returned to the room, he came to stand next to Doran at the window. “I am not an idiot,” said his brother.

“No,” said Doran.

They watched as a flock of gulls alighted on the balcony past the glass. Doran threw bread to them once, years ago, and never again. Still they came, every day. There was a lesson in that, he supposed.

“I do not know how much of this should be conveyed to Sansa,” Oberyn said. 

Doran had not yet arrived at a decision himself, so he said nothing.

“The night that I met her, she had such an air about her. I can scarcely describe it. Composed, fearless…I thought, these Lannisters are fools, they look only to the North for threats, they do not see that the North walks among them. I have watched her fall to pieces when she was frightened and then put herself back together again, like something that dies and is reborn.” Oberyn scrubbed a hand across his face, the first sign of weariness he had yet betrayed. “Yesterday, she frightened me. It was if she would die for fear. She could not breathe, not even to weep. I held her, for hours, like I did when the girls were small, and when it was over I realized, for the first time, that I had never seen all of her before. The armor was stripped away, and she was…fragile. Somehow I never thought of her as fragile.”

“She has a woman’s strength,” said Doran, thinking of the maid who had sat in his solar with reddened eyes, the same maid who had helped to hold a keep against a siege. “Men are brittle. Strike us too hard and we break. Women do not break. They bend like reeds in the storm and rise again.”

“No,” said Oberyn softly, “they break too. Elia broke.”

“Elia died. That is not the same.”

“I am afraid that if Sansa knows what the queen intends for her she may try to do herself harm.” Oberyn’s voice was calm, and somehow that grieved Doran more than if he had raged or wept. “In her heart, she does not believe that anyone can keep her safe, not even here. If she thinks she will be taken—”

“She will have a permanent guard of three men. Seven, when she goes to the markets or to the harbor.” Three men, or seven, might or might not be enough to stop her from being taken, but they were enough to stop her from throwing herself into the sea.

Oberyn nodded, acknowledging the gesture. “And then, Lord Tyrion. She will be distressed when she knows how they are using her against him.”

“That is a blow that perhaps we can soften. When she wakes, if she is well enough, bring her to me, and she will write a letter to Lord Tywin vouching for Tyrion’s innocence. Copies will be sent to the lord of every great house.” Sealed with the direwolf of House Stark, Doran thought. _That_ would send a decisive message.

“Yes, that will help. She will not take it so harshly if she can do something to assist him. I will also write, to declare the nonexistence of this poisoning conspiracy.”

And that, as Doran had hoped it would, brought them around to the last point he wanted to discuss with his brother before he expelled him from his chambers and slept for an hour longer. 

“Such letters might be more compelling if they were accompanied by an announcement of your betrothal.’”

Oberyn did not answer. He twitched, slightly, but he did not speak.

“You said, a month,” Doran prods. “A month, that she might know you better, and then you would put it to her.”

“It is not a month yet,” Oberyn said.

“In four days, it will be. Where do you stand?”

“On my knees, before all the gods.” Oberyn rubbed at his brow, as though his head ached. “I had intended to speak of it today, but after all that has happened…”

“Yes, all right.” It was as well that Arianne, not Oberyn, was his heir; Oberyn had never had the stomach for politics. “Mid-morning, bring her to my solar.”

“Certainly.” Oberyn turned to him, inclined his head, and started for the door. “Eat before you return to bed.”

The servant arrived with his breakfast tray only a minute after Oberyn’s departure, which meant that it had arrived long ago, and Oberyn had given orders to keep it in the antechamber until they were finished speaking. Doran regarded it dourly, considered sending it back.

 _What need have I of a new bride, when I have a brother to nag me, worry me, and fear for_ , he thought, as he ate. 

 

*

_Oberyn_

“Lady Sansa,” said Doran, reaching out from his chair to take and kiss her hand. “Thank you for coming. There are matters which I and my brother would discuss with you. Still, I can see that we none of us had much rest last night.”

“Were you unwell, my lord prince?” said Sansa, and though her own voice was faint with exhaustion, the concern in it was genuine. She wore silks the color of seawater today, Oberyn noted, and her hair fell to her waist like a banner of blood.

“I am all the better for your company.” Doran gave her a small smile. “Let us not waste the morning here. The gardens are cool and fresh. We will have a walk, and let the airs revive us.”

“Is it still a walk if you keep to your chair?” Oberyn inquired, all innocence.

Sansa gave him a sharp, scandalized look, and Doran, seeing it, gave one of his rare dry chuckles. 

“The two of you shall walk,” said Doran. “I will glide like a ship in full sail. And you will be the wind, brother.”

Oberyn could think of one or two things he might have said in response to that, but Sansa was still looking reproachful, so Oberyn hid his smile and took up his place behind Doran’s chair. The guards at the door stood aside to let them pass, but they did not follow. Sansa had not taken it well when Oberyn had told her that she was to have her own complement of armed men.

“Must I?” She had leaned heavily on his arm as he escorted her from his chambers. Her voice had trembled, and though she had not looked at him, her eyes were wide and fearful.

“You do not wish it? My brother meant it kindly. His only care is your safety.”

Sansa bit into her lower lip as Oberyn looked down on her. “Prince Doran is very kind, to be sure,” she said. 

“Speak your heart, Sansa, no offense will be taken.”

They had been halfway to the solar before she had finally confessed the trouble. “In King’s Landing, they were everywhere. The guards,” she said. “White cloaks, gold, red. All of them sworn to Joffrey, or to his father. I knew that he had only to say the word, and any one of them might…”

 _Idiot_ , Oberyn had thought to himself, and tightened his grip on her arm. 

“I am sorry, I did not think. Of course you do not want to see men with swords always around you. I will speak to Doran.”

There was no need of guards so long as she was with him or Doran at least. No one in Sunspear was fool enough to challenge a man with his reputation. And if they were fool enough to think his brother an easy target, they would go to the gods knowing better.

Because he was pushing Doran’s chair, Oberyn could not offer Sansa his arm as he customarily did when they walked together, and she looked as if she did not know where to place herself. “Come, child,” said Doran, and Sansa started walking next to his chair. “Oberyn has told me what happened yesterday. Your maid Mira has confessed that it was she who placed the mockingbird amongst your jewels, but she says that it was given to her by a messenger boy who works for a silversmith in the city. She assumed that it was a gift from myself or from my brother. She has been instructed to be more cautious in the future. We are looking for the messenger now.”

“Oh.” Oberyn had a better view of her hair than he did of her face but he thought she looked relieved. “I’m sure Mira meant no harm. She’s very kind, and clever.”

“No, I have no doubt that it was an innocent mistake. I would not have placed her with you if she was not trusted. She has been in my service since she was a child.”

Sansa nodded. “It is good to know that it was Mira who put it there. I…wondered if someone had crept into my room while I was sleeping.”

Because Oberyn did not go to bed last night, Ellaria had decided to remain in Sansa’s rooms until Sansa fell asleep, which she had only done an hour or so before Oberyn decided it was time to go and wake Doran. Oberyn had looked in on the two women around midnight and found Sansa lying on the bed in her sleep shift, with her head in Ellaria’s lap. Ellaria was stroking her hair and humming. 

It hadn’t even occurred to him that the reason she couldn’t sleep was because she thought her rooms were unsafe. He would have spent his sleepless night sitting in a chair outside her door, had he known.

“We are very well guarded here in the Old Palace, I assure you,” Doran told her, and Oberyn loved his brother all the better for the soothing patience of his tone. “My men are simply more discreet than Tywin Lannister’s. It would be difficult enough for anyone to enter, and much more difficult still for them to discover which part of the palace your chambers were in before they were stopped.”

“It is a bit of a maze,” she said, looking over her shoulder to give Oberyn a small smile. Oberyn grinned back at her. Her first week in the palace, when she could not yet bear the sun for any great length of time, they had spent hours walking the corridors of the palace together. He had shown her all the hidden places where he and Elia had played as children, though he had not mentioned his sister’s name. 

“My maester tells me that you have not sent any ravens since you came to us,” said Doran. “I hope you know that you are welcome to write to anyone you wish. Your half-brother, Jon Snow of the Night’s Watch, perhaps?”

At the mention of her brother’s name, Sansa’s breath escaped in a shocked oh. Her hand went to her stomach, as though she had taken a blow, and her steps faltered as they turned onto the path that led down between the red-and-gold beds of dragonsbreath and evening stars. 

“I never even thought of writing to anyone,” she said, looking at Doran with a stricken expression. “It’s been so long since I could…do anything.”

Oberyn wished he could catch Doran’s eye, but the only part of his brother he could see was the thinning patch of hair on the back of his head. _She thinks she is guilty of forgetting the only family she has left_ , he thought. Oberyn wanted to say that it wasn’t her fault, but it would be better if she heard it from someone other than himself, for once.

Doran didn’t need prompting. He looked up at her for a moment, then reached over to press her hand. “You are not a prisoner in Sunspear,” he said. “But I am sure that is easy for you to forget. Write to your brother if you wish. I would invite him to Dorne for your sake, if the oath he has sworn did not forbid it.”

Sansa blinked rapidly, but she was smiling, Oberyn saw. “I would be very grateful to make use of your ravens, Prince Doran.”

“It has been many years since we had occasion to send a raven to the Wall. I cannot even remember the last time we sent ravens into the North. Do you, brother?”

“I have never sent one.” Oberyn shrugged. “Who knows what you do when I’m not around.”

“I rule Dorne. While you frolic with pirates and sell-swords, and kidnap maidens.”

“I can see you have never met a pirate, they are not frolicsome people.” Oberyn caught Sansa’s wide-eyed stare and gave her a broad wink. He hoped she would blush, but she only looked startled, and a little curious.

When they reached the shaded area beneath the rose trellis, Oberyn positioned Doran’s chair at an angle with one of the stone benches and indicated with a sweep of his hand that Sansa should sit beside him. He sat on her left, where he could see both of their faces, and Doran looked at him with a question in his eyes.

Since meeting Sansa, Oberyn had learned to weigh his words before he uttered them. Rather, he had learned the price of not doing so, and that it was Sansa who would pay. It made his present task all the more difficult, because he knew that no matter what words he chose, no matter how gently they were uttered, Sansa would be grieved, she would be frightened. 

“You wished to discuss something with me?” Sansa says, looking at Oberyn, as though sensing his reluctance. Her expression was untroubled, it seemed to him, but she looked expectant, as though she thought she knew what they would say to her.

Doran nodded to him. Reluctantly, Oberyn produced the small scrap of cloth which had been pinned to Cersei Lannister’s letter. It was a heavy red silk brocade embroidered in gold, though it was impossible to tell what the larger pattern had been. A very small ruby dangled from one frayed thread.

“My brother came by this recently,” he said, offering it to her. “We were wondering if it was at all familiar to you?”

Sansa blinked at him. Clearly this was not what she had been expecting; but how could it have been? She held the cloth for a few seconds, and her brow wrinkled. The longer she stared at it, the deeper the furrow between her eyes became.

“It seems that you do recognize it,” said Doran, gently drawing her from her reverie.

“I—” She shook her head slowly. “It reminds me of…the wedding cloak I had of Lord Tyrion was made from such a cloth, but…” She raised her eyes questioningly.

_The wedding cloak. Gods be good, if my wits had not been scattered these last six weeks or more I might have seen that without putting her to the question._

“It can’t be, though,” she said, bewildered. “How would a piece of my wedding cloak come to be in Dorne? I did not bring it with me. The queen took it back after the wedding, along with the jewels—oh.” She fell still and quiet, and looked at the cloth once more. “Did…did Lord Tywin send it to you?”

Doran gave Oberyn the barest flicker of a glance, inviting him to answer. But Oberyn’s throat was constricted, his tongue heavy. Doran’s mouth tightened, then he looked at Sansa.

“It came with a letter from the queen,” said Doran. “It seems that the manner of your departure from King’s Landing has raised questions related to King Joffrey’s death.”

“What sort of questions, my lord prince?”

“Lord Tyrion has been arrested for the murder,” said Doran, his voice gentle, his expression soft. 

Sansa’s mouth fell open. “But why?”

“Perhaps he is guilty.”

“Lord Tyrion didn’t murder Joffrey,” she said. “He wouldn’t.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I just…” She frowned thoughtfully at her hands, turning the cloth this way and that. “He hated Joffrey, it’s true, but he was family. Tyrion is too much of a Lannister to murder his own blood.” Sansa looked at Doran quickly, then looked away again. “And if he was going to murder someone, he wouldn’t do it at a wedding feast before so many people. He’s too clever for that.”

“What if he had a good reason?”

“Brother.” Oberyn gave Doran a hard look, but Doran ignored him.

“He had many reasons to wish that Joffrey might choke on his roast boar,” Sansa said, “but that is not the same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.” Doran tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in towards Sansa. “But what if there was someone he cared for? What if he wished to avenge them, or win their favor? Can you think of no one whom Joffrey has hurt—no one Lord Tyrion might wish to protect?”

 _This is the wrong way,_ Oberyn thought, clenching his jaw. Sansa would take the news hard enough without Doran exhorting her to think the way that the Lannisters thought. _I should have told her myself. Quickly, to get the worst over with._

Sansa stared at Doran as though she had forgotten Oberyn was sitting next to her. He recognized her look; she was deep in thought, considering her words because she feared to speak wrongly. Unlike him, she had learned how to measure her words long ago. 

“It’s me, isn’t it,” she said, in a hollow voice. She sounded distant from herself, as though she had retreated to someplace deep in her own mind. “They think I asked him to do it.” Her hand stole to her throat, and Oberyn tensed, remembering how yesterday she had gasped for air like one poisoned. “The throne room was full of people the day Joffrey had me beaten. Anyone who was there probably thinks I had more reason to want him dead than anyone else in King’s Landing.”

“Didn’t you?” Doran’s voice was soft, soft, soft, and Oberyn wanted to scream at him.

“I _often_ imagined Joffrey choking on his roast boar,” said Sansa darkly.

Doran’s smile began as a small thing, then broadened until his face was almost unrecognizable, his eyes brighter than Oberyn had seen them in a long time. When Sansa saw, she too smiled, and laughed a little.

His brother knew exactly what he was doing, Oberyn thought, rueful, relieved. She was _laughing_. Anything that could be laughed at could be borne. 

“My lord prince.” Sansa lifted her head. Her smile was gone, but her expression was more confused than troubled. “If the queen believes that I planned Joffrey’s death with Tyrion…”

She faltered, but Doran simply waited.

Sansa turned, and looked at Oberyn for almost the first time since they sat down together. Then looked at her hands again, and the cloth scrap.

“I do not wish…I could not bear to think…” She crumpled the cloth in her hand. “I would not bring any dishonor on your house, or suffering to your people.”

“No, Sansa.” Oberyn took her hand and placed it between his. “It is only Cersei who so accuses you. Your arrest has not been ordered, Lord Tywin has made no mention of it.”

“Oh.” Sansa exhaled. “I assumed…”

“We have not spoken on this subject before, Sansa, because I know that you have already unburdened yourself to Oberyn, and he is a more than adequate confidante,” said Doran. “I was grievously shocked and affronted when my brother explained why it was so necessary to remove you from King’s Landing. I give you my word now as ruling prince of Dorne, I will never send you back to that city against your will.”

Sansa’s head bowed so low that only the bright crown of her red hair was visible. “You are most kind, my lord prince.”

“It is not only for your honor, but for the honor of my house. Think no more on it. There is another matter for us to consider.” 

Doran reached into his tunic and produced the mockingbird. He did not give it to Sansa, only displayed it to her for a moment. “Your fears regarding Lord Baelish were most astute. His ship was spotted in the harbor recently. It seems he may well be in Sunspear, and if that is the case, we must consider the possibility that the queen sent him, with some dark design towards you.”

Sansa stopped breathing for a moment. Oberyn, who was sitting close enough that he could feel the warmth of her leg against his knee, heard the tiny gasp of her last indrawn breath, and counted ten heartbeats before he heard it again.

“I am indebted to you for bringing the Queen’s regard for Littlefinger to my attention. I had not accounted for it in my understanding of the capital. It explains much.”

She did not thank him for the compliment, which was all Oberyn needed to know that she was holding on to her composure by her fingernails.

“I know you are frightened of him, Sansa. This is wise; he is a dangerous man. But remember what we learned from the messenger boy. He cannot touch you here.”

The mockingbird _had_ touched her, though, Oberyn thought, and Baelish would pay dearly for it.

“Remember that most of King’s Landing still believes I carried you off by force,” Oberyn added. “No doubt Baelish does as well. He will not suppose that you trust us enough to confide in us.”

“I am _quite_ convinced,” said Doran, with visible distaste, “that Lord Baelish has no idea how very well you know him, Sansa. Such a man is not accustomed to having those whom he peers at from the shadows peer back at him. I believe he sent you his mockingbird to bid you prepare for his arrival—as though you might welcome him as a friend.”

As they spoke, Sansa’s deathly pallor changed to a bright flush, two spots of hectic color that stood out upon her cheekbones.

“This is why you were going to put me under guard,” she says, and her voice holds steady until the last word, when it breaks.

“Yes,” said Doran simply. “I understand all too well why you did not want them. But the men who serve me are not the men who served Joffrey. I ask of them no service that would dishonor them, and they would not obey me if I did. Nor will they trouble you. Unless you wish to speak to them, you will not know they are there.”

Sansa nodded, whether because she was reassured or because she merely recognized that Doran would not alter his judgment, Oberyn could not say.

“One final matter, and then I will leave you to enjoy the rest of your morning,” said Doran. “We spoke of sending ravens earlier. I wondered if you would care to send one to King’s Landing, speaking in Lord Tyrion’s defense. Oberyn means to do so, but I will not press the matter if you are disinclined.”

“No, I’m not disinclined,” said Sansa quickly. “If you think it would help Lord Tyrion, I will be only too glad to do it.”

“I am sure that it will,” said Doran. “Write it at your leisure and bring it directly to me or to my brother when you are finished.”

Sansa nodded. A shadow crossed her face for a moment, and Oberyn could not help but wonder if she was thinking that the last person she had spoken for was her lord father. And that there was no guarantee that Tyrion Lannister would meet with a kinder fate than he did. 

“Brother,” said Doran, “Sansa, I must take my leave of you. If am not indisposed, I will see you both at supper.” He raised his hand, and at his signal Areoh Hotah and another member of his household guard emerged from the shadows where they had been standing, concealed all this while. 

Before they could remove him, Sansa stood, curtseyed, and then, blushing a little, she bent down to kiss Doran swiftly on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said, so quietly Oberyn almost did not hear it.

Doran, Oberyn observed, looked slightly godstruck by the pretty gesture. _Now he begins to understand what it is about her that makes a man want to walk through fire for her sake_ , he thought, feeling rather smug, as Doran in his chair was conveyed by his men back down the path toward the inner courtyard.

Sansa laughed suddenly, and Oberyn turned to her, smiling. “What amuses you?”

“Oh, nothing.” Her smile grew smaller but did not fade entirely. “I was just thinking. I was nervous when we first we sat down, because I thought that Prince Doran…I thought I knew what he wanted to talk to me about.” A rueful smile crosses her face. “But apparently all I have to worry about is the fact that the queen wants me dead and Littlefinger is nearby.”

Oberyn narrowed his eyes at her, slowly, and Sansa watched him, blinking quickly, until she burst into a fit of giggles. He hadn’t known that she could giggle like a young maid, and the knowledge warmed him until he too was laughing, and for a long, sweet moment there was nothing more important in all the wide world than the sound of their laughter ringing through the gardens.


	6. Chapter 6

6.

_Sansa_

Prince Doran had ruled that Sansa must have guards, but she was grateful when Oberyn allowed her to visit the bazaar in the shadow city outside Sunspear with only three men (and Mira) to escort her. Three guards were two too many—even Sansa would not have felt quite safe leaving the palace without at least one armed man accompanying her—but three were better than four, or seven. It helped that the guards looked so different from any of the guards in King’s Landing, with their armor of copper scales and the bright swathes of orange silk wound round their helms. When she was in danger of forgetting where she was, all she had to do was look at them to remember that they were Doran’s men, not Joffrey’s.

Sansa had decided to visit the bazaar last night, after she finished writing her letter to Jon. She wanted to send him a present along with her letter. It would have to be something very small and light, so the raven could carry it, but the bazaar was full trinkets—strips of leather with finely tooled designs, ribbons dyed in bright colors, jewels no larger than sand fleas. Sansa would gladly have sent Jon something better than a trinket, something rich and handsome and warm that would be of use to him at the Wall, but the distance between Dorne and the far North was such that anything she sent by ship or overland would take more than a year to arrive. Sansa didn’t want to wait that long. Jon was all the family she had left, as far as she knew. She had heard almost nothing about him these last few years, but Jon had probably heard rumors enough concerning what had befallen her. She wanted him to know that she was alive and safe, that she loved him and thought of him daily. What would Sansa not give for such a letter from any of her brothers, or her sister? Besides, the life of a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch was by no means safe. There was no guarantee that Jon would still be alive in a year for a present to reach him.

_No, I will not think that_ , Sansa decided, frowning down at a merchant’s display of colorful glass and shell beads. _I will not tempt the gods by mourning him before he is gone._ She would buy something small, to go with the letter, but she would find some means of sending him a gift that was worthy of him, as well. _Jon will live long enough for it to reach him, for him to take pleasure in it, he will._

“Do you not like them?” Mira, standing just behind her, had caught her frown. “There are finer beads closer to the wine shop, my lady.”

“I—no, I do not want beads.” Jon would have no use for them, and Sansa wanted none for herself. “Show me something else?”

The bazaar was unlike anything Sansa had ever seen. Dorne was a bit like the North, which had no true cities apart from White Harbor, but a shadow city had grown up around Sunspear, its brown walls made of the same sun-baked mud and sand as the palace. Compared to King’s Landing it was not very grand, but at least it smelled better. Or perhaps it was just the food; they liked their spices in Dorne, and even though Sansa was not entirely accustomed to the tastes yet, the fragrances were quite pleasant. This was only Sansa’s second visit to the bazaar, but Mira seemed to know where everything was, so Sansa had asked her to be her guide. The knights accompanying them did not make suggestions; they had been given instructions by Oberyn to keep a certain distance from Sansa. Two of them walked ten paces behind her, while the other walked ten paces ahead. 

Mira led Sansa to a merchant’s stall which displayed tiny ornate carvings—beetles, dragonflies, spiders, scorpions—claiming to by made from ivory that had been shipped all the way from the Summer Isles. Sansa’s eyes moved over the carvings, hoping to find a wolf, or even a dog. When Mira saw her looking, she picked a carving from the stall and bit down on it.

“Just checking, milady,” she said, putting it back down again when Sansa stared at her in shock. “Sometimes they’re only made of painted wood, or chalk. But these are real, you see? Real bone, at least.”

Sansa blinked, then laughed. “I thank you for your precautions,” she said. There was a little wolf, or at least a dog with a long snout and pointed ears. She nodded to it, and the merchant looked her up and down for a moment, eyes lingering on the rich embroidery at the hems of her sleeves, before naming a price.

“No, milady,” said Mira instantly, before Sansa could tell her to pay him. “That is much too high, he is cheating you.”

Sansa didn’t especially mind if she was being cheated. She had more gold to spend than she had ever had in her life, and nothing she truly needed to spend it on. There was no danger of emptying her purse in this bazaar unless she emptied it into a beggar’s bowl, as she had done the last time she came. 

But Mira’s eyes were flashing like she relished the chance to put the greedy merchant in his place, so Sansa decided to let her have her fun. The next stall on the row was selling candles made of tallow mixed with fragrant oils, and Sansa wanted to buy something for Oberyn. There was no point buying Oberyn anything other than a trinket; he could have no true use for presents from the bazaar, but Sansa thought he might appreciate the gesture, coming from her. And the candles smelled very nice. The merchant had draped a cloth on poles over his stall so that his wares would not melt in the sun, but in the heat their heady perfume was noticeable even from a distance.

As Mira continued to bicker with the bone merchant, a noise drew Sansa’s attention away from the candles. It came from the other side of the street, but Sansa could not see where at first. Then, she spotted them: down a narrow alley, so shaded by overlapping eaves that it was almost too dark to see from the brightness of the bazaar, there was a man, and a boy. The boy was not much older than Sansa, by the looks of him, small and skinny and dark-haired. The man was much older, and he was angry. He shook the boy by his shoulder and shoved him to the ground. 

Through the shadows of the alley, Sansa could just see the outline of the rod the man was raising over his head. She was still unprepared when he began raining blows down on the boy at his feet. 

The boy’s screams were almost completely drowned out by the noise around her, but somehow they were the only thing Sansa could hear. She was frozen, save for her heart, which was pounding in her chest. She felt lightheaded, and all the noises around her were growing distant.

“Mira,” she whispered. “Mira, we must stop him—”

Sansa looked over her shoulder, but her maid was no longer with the bone merchant. She had walked over to where the two guards were standing, and they were looking down at her while she spoke to them. None of them were looking in Sansa’s direction. She would have to go them, she would tell them to make the man stop, take the boy somewhere safe…but the boy’s cries were growing louder, as though each blow was more painful than the one before, and Sansa could not tear herself away.

_He must stop,_ she thought wildly, _I have to make him stop._

Before Sansa knew what she was doing, her feet were carrying her forward. She pushed through the crowd, thinking dimly that she had not been amongst such a crush of people since the day the smallfolk of King’s Landing had thrown dung at Joffrey. But that day, every eye had been on her, on the rest of the royal party. No one was paying any attention to her now, except for a man who cursed at her when her shoulder knocked into his elbow. 

Soon enough, she was standing at the mouth of the alley. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then, the boy looked up at her. In his eyes, Sansa saw no pleading in them, no hope of mercy, only the dullness of suffering. It was a look she recognized.

“Stop it!” Sansa shouted at the man. “Stop it, you’re hurting him!”

Either the man did not hear her, or he did not care enough to look up. Sansa didn’t want to get any closer, didn’t want the man to be angry with her, but another blow fell, and suddenly she wasn’t afraid anymore. She was trembling from head to foot, a red tide of rage rising up inside her, hot enough to melt all the snow in the North.

“The prince will have you _flogged_ in the _square_ ,” she shouted at him, her hands two fists at her sides. 

When the man finally looked at her, he did the same thing the merchant had done—looked her up and down, taking in the tiny sapphire earrings in her ears and the orange silk of her dress. Seconds passed, and then, without another word, he turned and shoved his way back through the door. It was the back entrance of the wine shop, she realized now. The boy was probably his servant, or his apprentice, if keepers of wine shops had apprentices.

The boy was already getting to his feet. Sansa reached down to help him up the rest of the way. His eyes were extremely wide, but unlike the merchant he looked nowhere except at her face.

“Are you all right?” she said softly.

He nodded, and then his mouth opened, like he wanted to speak. Then his eyes got even wider, and he took a step back, just as the wine shop door crashed open again.

It happened so quickly she did not have time to draw breath for screaming. Heavy hands fell on Sansa’s shoulders, gripping her arms. She writhed against her captors as they pulled her off her feet—there were two, one on either side of her—and she dug her nails into their arms, but they were pulling her backwards, through the door, into the wine shop. She did scream then, but a heavy hand pressed itself against her mouth and nose, muffling the noise, cutting off her air. The last thing she saw before they got her through the doorway was the boy, running down the alley towards the bazaar.

There was no one inside the wine shop, not even the man who had been beating the boy. Sansa’s captors hauled her up a narrow staircase, where a single room sat at the end of a short corridor. The door of the room was open, and the two men marched Sansa just inside it, before releasing her so abruptly that she fell to her hands and knees. As she fell, she saw the shape of a small, slender man step out of the shadows.

Petyr Baelish stooped to take hold of Sansa’s arms. He raised her to her feet, his face arranged in an expression of apologetic concern.

“I am so very sorry,” he said. “I needed to speak with you, in private, and there was no other way. You’re not hurt?”

Sansa snatched her hands free and backed away until she felt the door latch digging into her back. 

“Please don’t be frightened.” Littlefinger spread his hands, as if to show that he was unarmed. “You’re perfectly safe here. I only want to talk. May I say what a very great relief it is to see you looking so well, my lady? Dorne seems to be agreeing with you.”

“You should not have done this,” Sansa whispered. Fear mingled with dread made her breathing shallow, made her face felt strangely numb. “The Lannisters cannot protect you here, Prince Oberyn will kill you.”

“Prince Oberyn isn’t here, my lady.” Littlefinger took another step towards her. “And I will be gone soon enough. I had to see you before I left. Your departure from King’s Landing was most mysterious. I needed to be certain you were not in any danger.”

Sansa could hear, down in the street below, the sounds of the bazaar drifting up through the windows. Her guards must have realized that she was missing by now. They would be looking for her; surely the wine shop was one of the first places they would look.

“You’re lying,” she said flatly. “You’re here to take me back to King’s Landing. I know the Queen sent you.”

The slight flicker of surprise she saw in his eyes was not feigned. But he recovered quickly enough. “I see you’re keeping up with events back home. It’s good to know that we have been in your thoughts.” He smiled, like it was a jape, but he was watching her closely.

“The Queen wrote to Prince Doran, and _I_ told him you were in Dorne. His men are already looking for you. You might not have as much time as you think.”

Oberyn had said that Littlefinger, who had only seen her in the company of people she feared and mistrusted, would not guess that she had confided in anyone about the mockingbird. But if she thought she could alarm him, she was wrong. Baelish’s smile grew the tiniest bit wider.

“I admit, the Queen did send me,” he said. “But she won’t know that I managed to find you. That will be our little secret.”

_I will share no secrets with you,_ Sansa thought, but she held her tongue. 

“You know…” Littlefinger walked to the window, clasping his hands behind his back. “Everyone in King’s Landing believes that Prince Oberyn kidnapped you, but I was always doubtful. The Red Viper…he’s impulsive, hot-tempered, but in his way he’s an honorable man. Rather like your father. I didn’t think he would have taken you unless you…wanted to be taken.”

“What difference does that make?” she said, trying to sound unconcerned.

“All the difference in the world. Abduction is a peril that befalls helpless maidens. Making your own bargain with Oberyn Martell to win your freedom from the Lannisters…that is not the act of a helpless girl. If the Lannisters knew the truth, they might finally realize that you’ve become dangerous in your own right.” Littlefinger turned on his heel and grinned at her with all his teeth. “I can’t tell you how much I approve.”

“I don’t care whether or not you approve,” said Sansa, thinking, _If he comes any closer, I_ will _scream. They’re looking for me, someone will hear._

“No, I expect not. You’ve won a greater prize than my humble esteem. Are you enjoying Prince Doran’s hospitality?”

Sansa turned the question over in her mind, looking for the hidden trap. She chose her words carefully. “House Martell has shown me great kindness.”

“Yes, I know. Before the king’s untimely demise, the Martells’ kindness towards you was all anyone whispered about in King’s Landing.” He cocked his head, studying her. “Your new wardrobe, for instance. Princess Arianne wrote to the Queen’s own dressmaker, offering to pay her handsomely for embroidered silk panels and reels of Myrish lace. The poor woman refused, of course, but I assure you, the look on Queen Cersei’s face was everything the Princess could have wished for. Tell me—is it true that Prince Oberyn has made you his new paramour?”

“What?” Sansa was so shocked that the word escaped before she realized that she was betraying herself. But the pleased twinkle in Littlefinger’s eye was proof that she had. 

“Of course not. I didn’t think so, but the Queen is convinced.” He turned back to the window. “I would have thought Prince Oberyn was somewhat old to make you a proper husband. Prince Doran’s oldest son might have been a better match, but last I heard he was somewhere in Essos.”

Sansa said nothing. 

“You _are_ betrothed to Prince Oberyn, are you not? I must have missed the announcement while I was traveling.” 

“Prince Doran has made me his ward,” she said stiffly.

“His ward. I see. Like Princess Myrcella.” His brow furrowed, as though he were thinking. “Or perhaps not. Myrcella _is_ betrothed, after all. To Prince Trystane.”

When Sansa did not reply, all the expression melted from Littlefinger’s face. He looked at her for a long moment, and when he spoke again, there was no insinuation in his tone, no smugness, and Sansa felt chilled.

“Sansa,” he said heavily. “You are not a child anymore. You must see that there is no future for you here in Dorne.”

Sansa blinked. _No future._ She still woke up in the mornings, wondering if the people who had been kind to her yesterday would also be kind to her today. Thoughts of the future had not troubled her in a long time.

“No doubt you believed that Prince Oberyn would marry you when he took you away from King’s Landing. But you have been here for some time already. If the betrothal hasn’t taken place, it’s not going to take place.” He walked towards her, one step, then another, and Sansa felt the door latch digging into her back as she pressed herself against it. “ _Think._ Why should Dorne make an alliance with the North? How is that to benefit the Martells, when six kingdoms lie between Sunspear and Winterfell?”

Sansa did not want to answer him, but even if she had, she did not know what she would say. There was no reason she could think of. Prince Doran had never asked her about Winterfell, never even mentioned Robb’s claim, or the North. Oberyn had promised to keep her safe, and Prince Doran had promised never to make her return to King’s Landing. That was _all_ they had promised.

Suddenly, Sansa understood what it was Littlefinger was saying to her. _They will keep me safe,_ she thought, _but unless I marry, the rest of my life will pass as the last six weeks have passed. I will do nothing, see no one, go nowhere. I will hide behind strong walls, walk in the gardens, and count the years as they go by. My line will end, and there will never be another Stark in Winterfell._

“If you stay here,” Littlefinger pressed on, “you will never see your home again. The Bastard of Bolton has taken your sister, Arya, as his wife. His hold on the North grows stronger by the day.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She could feel her knees trembling underneath her. _Arya. Arya,_ married? _She’s just a child._ Her sister was still only one-and-ten. _They wed you to Tyrion at two-and-ten._

She was so distracted that she didn’t noticed Littlefinger moving closer to her until he was standing just before her. Sansa took a quick breath as he reached up and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

“When I leave here, I am going to the Vale to be married to Lady Arryn,” he said quietly. “Lysa is your aunt. Your blood. Almost the last family you have left. You would be safe with her, and with me, in the Vale. _Come with me._ ”

“I—” 

Baelish placed a finger to her lips, cutting off her protest.

“Come with me,” he said, “and one day you _will go home again_. You will never have another chance like this one. These Dornishmen care nothing for you. Even if they continue to protect you from the Lannisters, you will gain nothing and lose everything by staying here. You’ll never see Winterfell or your sister or your bastard brother again. Haven’t you lost enough family already?”

He was standing so close to her that Sansa could feel the heat of his breath against her forehead. Sansa looked down, taking one deep breath, then another. Littlefinger’s expression was soft, almost tender, but when Sansa pressed her hands flat against his chest his eyes glinted hungrily. 

Sansa braced herself against the door and shoved with all her strength. Littlefinger reeled backwards, his expression as genuinely surprised as she had ever seen it. Sansa spun, raising the door latch. _It wasn’t locked, after all._

“Sansa!” 

She froze, hating herself for it. But he could stop her easily enough if he wanted to, and she would not be able to fight him. 

“I sail for Gull Town at first light,” he said. “My ship will wait for you until dawn. Think carefully before you decide, sweetling. Dornishmen and their proclivities…I would wish a better fate for you.”

Sansa stood there with her back to Littlefinger and her hand on the latch for a dozen more heartbeats. When he said nothing more, she opened the door, waiting for him to lunge across the room and slam it shut again. But he didn’t. 

Sansa stepped through the door and walked down the narrow corridor. With every step, she expected to hear Littlefinger following her, or to see the men who took her from the alley lying in wait for her down the stairs. But there was no one lying in wait. The wine shop below was still empty, and so was the alley when she reached it.

The sunlit bazaar at the end of the alley was so bright after the dimness of the shop that it blinded her. Squinting, Sansa walked into the crowd, looking for Mira, looking for Prince Doran’s men. When she saw neither Mira’s sandy curls nor helms swathed in orange silk, her heart sank. Littlefinger must have done something—bribed them, perhaps. She did not think he would risk having them killed, not if he meant to stay in the city until the morning. 

_No, it was the boy,_ a voice whispered at the back of her mind. It was Littlefinger’s voice, the one he used when he was explaining things to her. The look the boy had given her when she helped him up…he was part of it. When the guards started looking for her, he must have misled them. The shadow city was not so large as King’s Landing, but it was a maze of unplanned streets and haphazard alleys. They might look for her for a long time without finding her.

The last time she had come to the market, she had come on horseback. They had left the horses tethered by a fountain while Sansa explored the bazaar on foot. There was not much danger of the horses being stolen, her guard had explained, because no horse trader in Dorne would be able to claim that they had not recognized one of the prince’s mounts. If they had ridden today, Sansa would have gone to the fountain and waited until the guards returned for the horses. But they had set out on foot this morning. She had wanted to walk; the morning had been cool, and she had been restless.

There was nothing to do, she realized, but stay where she was, or else return to the palace alone. And she could not stay where she was. Littlefinger might change his mind and send the men after her again. It would be easy for them to drag her off to his ship, and hardly anyone was here to see them do it. The sun was nearly at its peak, and the bazaar was emptying as merchants closed their stalls and went indoors to escape the worst of the heat. 

The distance back to the palace was not so great, but it wasn’t a journey anyone would make on foot at midday if they had any other choice. Sansa and Mira had intended to take their noon refreshment at an inn and rest in one of the rooms until it was cool enough to travel again. But Sansa could not go to an inn now; Mira held all her coin. Sansa didn’t even have a copper to buy bread and tea, and she didn’t have the courage to beg for shelter she could not pay for. If she was lucky, the guards would give up on searching for her soon and make their own way back to the palace. They might find her on the road, and then, at least, she would have an escort.

The emptiness of the bazaar made Sansa feel as though every door and window had eyes. People were looking at her, she was sure. Only whores walked through the bazaar without escort, but no whore would wear a gown as costly as Sansa’s. She kept her head high and put her shoulders back, thinking of Cersei Lannister, whose frowns could terrify an entire court. _I will not let them see me afraid._ Fear drew predators as surely as blood drew carrion. In King’s Landing, Littlefinger had always had a knack for appearing to Sansa when she was at her lowest and most frightened. If his eyes were among those watching her now, he would not know by looking at her how his words had shaken her, or how deeply he had managed to plant his seeds of doubt.

As unnerving as it was to cross the empty bazaar alone, the road that lay beyond its gates was worse. Prince Doran had shariffs and justiciars who kept the peace in Dorne and enforced his law, and because of this there were fewer cutpurses in the bazaar than there would have been in a similar market in King’s Landing, where only the City Watch kept the King’s peace. But past the gates, the shadow city was much less like a city. Instead of pillow houses and wine shops and merchant’s stalls, there were only hovels and tents, and the empty gaps between them. This, not the bazaar, was where she was likeliest to meet the sort of men who would trouble a woman traveling alone. Sansa tried to walk confidently, as though she had a dozen men at her back, as though all the might of a great house was hers to summon.

_The palace is just before me,_ Sansa told herself, feeling the sweat trickle down the back of her neck. The sun was bearing down on her fiercely and her steps were growing unsteady, as though she had drunk too much wine. She needed water, and shade. _I cannot lose my way._

Sansa had been walking for at least half an hour when she saw the dust cloud forming on the road ahead of her. By now, she was so faint she could not be certain whether it was real or a vision. Sun sickness could make people see things, as she had discovered on the journey that first brought her to Sunspear. The air shimmered as though a pool of water lay just before her. There appeared to be at least ten horses, riding at full gallop. In a minute, she would be able to hear them, if they were indeed real.

Sansa put one foot in front of the other, squinting against the sun, staggering when she trod on a sharp rock. She could feel the tremors from the approaching hoof beats rumbling up from the earth beneath her. Just as the company drew close enough for Sansa to be certain that she had not mistaken the red and orange banners, one of the riders broke away from the rest and put on a burst of speed. 

As soon as Sansa gave her feet permission to stop moving, her knees gave way and she collapsed into the dirt. The lone rider was making straight for her. As he drew closer, Sansa heard a voice shouting her name.

A moment later he slowed his approach, leaping from the saddle before his horse had come to a full stop. He ran towards her, and she forced herself to lift her head, but her hair had plastered itself to the sweat of her face and she could not see. Someone was speaking to her, falling to his knees beside her, hands tight on both of her shoulders. Sansa tried to speak, to assure him she was well, but her tongue was too thick and her mouth was too dry.

“Gods be good, Sansa,” Oberyn gasped. He held her at arm’s length, raking her with his eyes. With one hand, he swept her hair back to look at her face. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking her head was all the reply she could manage. 

“They said you vanished from the bazaar,” he said, sounding both desperate and relieved. “I thought you had been taken.”

_Not taken. Only lured._ Sansa wondered for the first time how Littlefinger had been so certain that the boy’s beating would draw her down that alley. _That was cruel of him. Cruel to both of us._

The other riders caught up to them while Oberyn was still inspecting her for injuries. The horses formed a half circle, with Sansa and Oberyn at its center. Oberyn shouted over his shoulder for water, and a rider promptly dismounted, rummaging through his saddlebags for a water skin and approaching with quick strides.

“Drink it all,” Oberyn said, taking the skin from the guard and holding it to her mouth. “Slowly, or it will come back up.” 

It was all Sansa could do not to gulp the water, but she made herself take a breath between each swallow. When the skin was empty, Oberyn tossed it aside and took hold of her shoulders again. 

“You are too white,” he muttered, pressing the back of his hand against her cheek. “Your skin is cold. We must get you back to the palace.”

“Wait.” She laid her hands on his wrists, stilling him as he made to get to his feet. “I must tell you…”

What must she tell him? _Think carefully before you decide, sweetling._

“What is it?” Oberyn peered anxiously at her. “What befell you?”

If she told him of the boy, Oberyn’s men would look for him, and if they found him…she didn’t think Oberyn would punish a child. But the boy wasn’t important, she decided. Only the man who had ordered him to be beaten mattered.

“I am not hurt,” she said again, as steadily as she could. “But…I was taken. Only into the wine shop. He let me go after he had said what he came to say.”

Oberyn’s eyes narrowed. “He?”

_“Him,"_ Sansa said, willing him to understand. The water had helped, but her mouth was still dry, her head spinning. 

At first, Oberyn only looked confused. But then he sucked in a deep breath through flaring nostrils and for an instant the expression on his face was so wild that he barely looked human. Sansa looked down, unable to bear the sudden menace in his eyes.

“Did he touch you?” Oberyn demanded.

_No,_ she started to say, but then she remembered how Littlefinger’s breath had ghosted across her forehead. She could still feel the pressure of his finger against her lips, remember how her skin had crawled as he tucked her hair behind her ear. 

She shuddered before she could stop herself, too sick to speak. Oberyn’s mouth twisted, and his fingers dug into her shoulders, sharp as spear points. Sansa tried to pull away from him to no avail, but then he seemed to realize that he was hurting her, because he snatched his hands away as though they had been burnt.

“You cannot kill him,” she said feebly. “Please, he knows things. He said that Arya was alive, that she’s married. No one has seen Arya since our father was killed. I must know if he’s telling the truth.”

Sansa knew better than that. If Littlefinger had been lying to her, she did not think he would admit it, and if he were telling the truth there were other ways to verify it. But it was all she could think of to say that might persuade Oberyn to restrain himself. 

“Sansa…” Oberyn sighed, a long, low defeated noise, and his hands came up to cup her face. “I make no promises, but I will do what I can.” 

He flicked a glance towards the rider that had brought the water skin, still standing nearby, waiting for instructions. The rider seemed to understand what it was his prince wanted of him. He returned to his horse, and when he set off towards the bazaar all but two of the company spurred their mounts to follow him. A great cloud of dust swirled in their wake, and Sansa, her throat still dry, began coughing.

Oberyn pulled her down against his chest, tucking her face against his shoulder until the dust had settled again and the spasm had passed. When Sansa saw looked at him, it seemed as if the worst of his passion had abated. Or perhaps he had simply put it away for a time, until it would serve him better.

“I must get you to the maester,” he said. “Put your arms around my neck."

“I am better now,” she insisted, but she did as he had bid. “The water helped.”

“You need to rest, away from the sun.” Oberyn held her tightly against him and got to his feet, bearing the weight of her with an arm under her knees. He walked to where one of the two remaining riders stood, holding his horse’s bridle, and passed her into the arms of the guard. When Oberyn had re-mounted, the guard passed Sansa back to him, and Oberyn pulled her up onto the front of his saddle. With one hand, he gathered the reigns; his other arm circled her waist.

It wasn’t until Oberyn spurred the horse to a run that Sansa began to realize that he had been right, that something was wrong with her. Her head felt heavy, and her hands, clutching Oberyn’s tunic, fell slack against her bidding. 

The last thing she felt was Oberyn’s arm tightening around her. _Dornishmen and their proclivities,_ she thought, before all thought ceased, and the darkness rose up to claim her.


	7. Chapter 7

_Oberyn_

At the maester’s instruction, two maids had fastened hangings of thick wool over the windows in Sansa’s chamber, to block the light and heat of the sun. A third maid stood in the corner, stirring the still air into a breeze with a large fan, while in the darkest part of the room, behind a screen, Ellaria was helping Sansa undress. 

Sansa was weak, but she was awake now, at least. She had terrified Oberyn by fainting on the road back to the palace, but she’d begun stirring again shortly after he carried her into Caleotte’s cell. Caleotte had touched her skin and looked into her mouth and counted her heartbeats before pronouncing that she would recover with a little more care. 

Oberyn had been walking with Ellaria, Dorea, and Loreza when the messenger from the bazaar arrived to notify him that Sansa and her maid were both missing. Even as Oberyn ran for the guardhouse he had felt chilled to his marrow. Alone, Sansa might only have become lost in the bazaar’s winding streets. But Mira had grown up in the shadow city. If both women had vanished, it could only mean that they had been abducted, or robbed, or raped and left for dead. Oberyn had not thought of Baelish then. Despite all of Sansa’s warnings, neither he nor Doran had truly believed that Baelish was bold enough to make a play for Sansa here in the very seat of House Martell’s power. 

Impatience had made the time seem long before the riders returned from their search, but in truth the first of them were back within the hour. They came to Doran carrying a body wrapped in a red cloak, and for a breathless moment Oberyn had been torn between savage satisfaction and bitter disappointment. Baelish’s life was _his_ to take, by rights. Or Sansa’s, perhaps, had she wanted it. But then the guard had unwrapped the bloody cloak, and Oberyn found himself looking down at the dead body of the maid, a blood gash where her throat had once been.

Doran had uttered a low cry of dismay when he saw the girl’s face. “I have known her since she was but six years old,” he said softly. “Since she was a little girl playing in the Water Gardens with Quentyn.”

Oberyn, kneeling next to the girl’s body, forced himself to look away from her wound to examine the broken fingernails on her right hand. He felt less inclined than his brother to mourn her. 

“Where was she found?” he asked the guard.

“In the wine shop, where the Lady Sansa bade us look. She was lying on the bed in a room above stairs.”

“Was she killed there, or only left there?”

“I believe she was left there, my prince. There was too little blood in the bed for such a wound.”

“If she was left there, it was for us to find.” _Thus Baelish rewards his servants,_ he did not add, because Doran already knew.

After he left Doran, Oberyn had returned to the maester’s cell, to be told that Sansa was awake and had asked to be taken to her own rooms. Now Oberyn stood quietly in the doorway of Sansa’s chamber, listening to the gentle slosh of water as Ellaria helped Sansa submerge herself in a cold bath. It was the fastest means of restoring vitality after sun sickness, and the large baths were reserved for just such a purpose.

“Ellaria,” said Sansa, so softly that Oberyn could scarcely hear her. “Have I ever told you of my sister?”

 _He said that Arya was alive, that she’s married._ Sansa’s eyes were stricken and fearful when she told him that, and Oberyn had been confused. He hadn’t remembered that her sister was called Arya. 

“No, I don’t think you have,” said Ellaria.

“We’re very different, Arya and I. As different as Prince Oberyn and Prince Doran.”

“Oh? And which of you is Oberyn?” Ellaria’s voice was light, teasing, and despite everything, Oberyn smiled.

“Arya, of course,” said Sansa. “I think…I think she might have been happier if she had been born some place like Dorne, where women may learn to fight if they wish. She had her own sword, you know. I don’t know where she got it, but our father engaged a Braavosi dancing master to teacher her how to use it. She was so happy about that. Insufferable, really.”

“Insufferable, ah. I begin to see the resemblance to our prince.”

Oberyn winced. He had been quiet, entering the room, but Ellaria knew him too well. _I may as well be comfortable then,_ he thought, and walked across the room to take a seat closer to the screen.

“Our septa despaired of Arya. She would never sit still for needle work, and her dresses were always covered in mud. She got bored with stories and poems, she only wanted to hear of battles. Father said she had the wolf’s blood in her.”

“The wolf’s blood! How fierce she sounds.”

“She was. She is.” Sansa sounded wistful. “She’s so bold. Always speaks her mind. She would never have done as I did in King’s Landing. Never would have called our lord father a traitor, nor borne it quietly while the King boasted of our how our brother and mother died.” She gave a bitter little sigh. “If Ser Meryn or Ser Boros had torn off _her_ dress, she would have laughed at them. If they’d beaten her, she would have _stabbed_ them.”

Oberyn jerked his head to one side and squeezed his hand into a tight fist. He had not heard before that Sansa had been stripped of her clothing. Nor had he heard the names of any of the knights who had beaten her, save for Ser Arys, whom Sansa had said was the least brutal of them. 

The Kingsguard numbered seven. If, of those seven, _Ser Meryn_ and _Ser Boros_ were the first two names Sansa thought of, then likely they were the ones she had in mind when she said that some of those who had beaten her had taken pleasure in her pain. Oberyn would be certain to remember those two names.

“Lord Baelish said…” Sansa’s voice faltered. “He said that Arya has been _married._ To Lord Bolton’s bastard son. She’s only one-and-ten.”

_Says the once-married maiden of three-and-ten._

“That is no age for a girl to be married.” 

“It’s more than that, though,” said Sansa urgently. “Ellaria, the Boltons and the Freys betrayed and murdered my mother and brother. Arya would _never_ marry a Bolton willingly. She must have been forced. And…and if she’s living among our family’s enemies…”

“You are afraid for her,” said Ellaria softly.

“I am. Very much so. I was always afraid for her, but I half believed she was dead. No one’s seen her in so long.”

“Then at least you know she is alive,” said Ellaria. “Try to think only of that.”

“I can’t, though. I can’t stop wondering what sort of person her husband is. I never even knew that Lord Bolton had a bastard.” Her voice dropped so low that Oberyn had to strain to hear her. “I know she will be miserable either way, but if only I could believe that he was kind to her, as Lord Tyrion was to me, I would feel better. Not knowing is worse than anything.”

 _No,_ thought Oberyn, his stomach a lead weight slowly plunging towards the region of his boots. _Knowing would be worse, in this case._ Unlike Sansa, Oberyn did know something of the Bastard of Bolton. He knew, at least, what Ramsay Snow had done to Balon Greyjoy’s heir, Sansa’s foster-brother. To Roose Bolton, the flayed man was but the badge of his house. To his bastard, it was a calling.

Ellaria was silent for awhile. Oberyn suspected that she had also heard rumors; if so, he was glad, for Ellaria was perhaps a better and fairer judge of what Sansa ought to be told than he was. 

“If you ask Doran,” she said at last, “I have no doubt that he would make inquiries after your sister, for your sake.”

“I cannot ask Prince Doran,” said Sansa immediately. “Nor Oberyn neither. I…I don’t know if I trust them to tell me the truth. Not if it’s bad.”

Oberyn bit the inside of his cheek.

“You are right about Oberyn,” said Ellaria, the irony in her voice confirmation that she knew that he was listening. “But I hope you do not blame him. He wants nothing more than to protect you.”

“He can’t protect me.” The quiet resignation in Sansa’s voice was a knife to the heart. “No one can protect anyone.”

It was Ellaria’s turn to sigh. For a minute or so, Oberyn heard nothing save the movement of water and the rustling of Ellaria’s silks as she knelt upon the floor.

“Ellaria,” said Sansa, “do _you_ know aught of the man Arya has married?”

If Oberyn were standing on the other side of the screen, he knew what sort of look Ellaria would be giving him just now—wary, hesitant, thoughtful.

“I am not Cersei Lannister,” said Ellaria. “I do not keep spies.”

“But people talk. _Women_ talk. You know many highborn ladies…”

“You should not put faith in gossip.”

There was a splash, as though Sansa had sat up suddenly. “You have heard something. Ellaria, please tell me, please.”

Ellaria sighed. “I have heard very little, and only tales that have been repeated so often there is no telling what truth lies in them. Sansa, you have known so much grief, must you invite more?”

“I am grieved either way,” said Sansa resolutely. “At least tell me whether I should be praying for Arya’s contentment, or praying that the gods deliver her.”

Oberyn would not have known what to say to her. But Ellaria hesitated only briefly. “We will both pray that she be protected and delivered.”

A long, terrible silence fell, only to be broken by a sob. It was an ugly, shattered noise, so despairing that it was all Oberyn could do to keep his seat, though he did not know whether he wished to flee the room or step forward to comfort her. 

“Sansa, Sansa, hush now.” Ellaria’s voice was steady. “Be still. Let’s get you out of this bath, the water is tepid and full of sand. Oberyn, my love,” her voice grew louder, “fetch Sansa’s dressing gown.”

Sansa’s strangled intake of breath made Oberyn’s gut twist with guilt, but he did as Ellaria had bid, taking the gown from the bed and draping it over the top of the screen. For a few minutes the only sounds in the room were those of Ellaria patting a sheet softly to Sansa’s sunburnt skin and helping her into her clothes. 

Oberyn was standing by the window when Sansa and Ellaria emerged, his hands clasped behind his back, hoping that his face looked suitably penitent. “I am sorry for listening,” he told them both. “I brought a salve to soothe your burns, Sansa, and then…” He spread his hands helplessly. 

Sansa wasn’t weeping anymore. Tears continued to roll down her face, but she scarcely seemed to notice them. She shook her head, as if to say it didn’t matter to her what he had heard, and Oberyn supposed that his sins must seem very minor to her after all that she had endured today.

Ellaria ushered Sansa to the sofa, draping her knees with a light blanket and giving her a cushion, which Sansa promptly hugged to her chest. “I’m just going to see what is keeping the maester’s boy, he should have arrived with your potion by now. Oberyn will stay with you.”

When Ellaria departed, the maids went with her, and Sansa didn’t look up when Oberyn sat gingerly on the far end of the sofa. If she wept again he would feel emboldened to touch her, to comfort her, but he thought she was probably done weeping for the present. For all that she sat only inches away from him she seemed very far away, lost in a world of her own. 

At first, Oberyn thought she would not speak, and that was probably for the best. She needed to rest; Ellaria was bringing her a potion to help her sleep. When she did speak it was after so long a silence that the sound of her voice startled him, though not so much as her words.

“I thought…” Oberyn lifted his head. Sansa’s hands were joined in her lap, the thumb of one hand running restlessly over the backs of her knuckles. “I thought that the next bad thing that happened to me was going to be you.” 

Oberyn could only blink at her in bewilderment.

“After my wedding, I used to lay awake at nights, staring at the door, wondering if Joffrey was going to walk through it. Or if not Joffrey, someone else. His cousin, Lancel. Lord Tywin, perhaps.” The restless motion of her hands was mesmerizing. “Then, after we left King’s Landing, on our way to Dorne…I lay in my tent at nights, wondering if you would…visit. Wondering if I would have to…to show you my gratitude.”

Oberyn felt all the breath leaving his lungs, as though he’d taken a blow to the stomach. 

“I don’t worry about that anymore,” she said, turning her head in his direction briefly, though she didn’t meet his eyes. “I know you now, I know you would never… But for a long time I was prepared for the worst.”

“I am sorry,” he said, as humbly as he’d ever said those words in his life. “I kept my distance from you during that journey because I thought you would prefer it. I never meant to leave you in doubt as to my intentions.”

Her lips moved silently. She looked out into the middle distance with dull eyes. “It isn’t fair that Arya is the one who married a monster. That was _my_ job. I didn’t want it, but I was _prepared_ …” Sansa pressed a hand to her throat. “Arya won’t do what she needs to do to be safe. She won’t go along with things, she won’t pretend, she’ll fight and fight, until...”

“You fought as well,” Oberyn said softly, not certain if it would be a comfort but unable to say nothing. “In your own way, you have fought them all the while. You are not so different from your sister, just as I am not so different from Doran as people believe. The same strength lies in you both. Your sister fights with different weapons, perhaps.”

“They are the wrong weapons. They will not protect her, not where she is now.”

He dared not say what he was thinking, that a sword was the _only_ thing that was like to protect her sister if she was truly married to the Bastard of the Dreadfort. Oberyn hoped that Arya Stark was every bit as fierce and wild as Sansa believed her to be, for both their sakes. 

“I feel as though this is all a mistake,” Sansa murmured, sounding as vague and dreamlike as though she were only talking to herself and not to him. “As though all the kindness I have met with here was never truly meant for me. The gods intended that I should stay in King’s Landing forever, and I cheated them of their due when I escaped. I wonder…if you had been all that I feared, would Arya have been spared? If I provoked you into striking me, is that a blow Arya would never feel?”

“My honor is mine own,” Oberyn said, sharper than he meant to. “It is not for you to bargain with.”

For the first time since he found her on the road that day she looked up at him, her eyes wide and confused.

“You understand the minds of weak and vicious men, but you have lived among them for so long that you do not see anything else as clearly,” he continued, softer now. “You do not see _yourself_ clearly. You think you have the power to turn a man into a beast because men have behaved like beasts towards you and blamed you for their own savagery. But you have no such power over me. Say what you will, do what you will, you cannot make me hurt you.” 

Sansa averted her gaze, and new tears sprang to her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said. “I should not have said that. I did not mean to offend you.”

The sun was only just beginning to set and already Oberyn was as weary as if he had toiled long into the night. First Sansa was missing, then she was ill, then there was a dead girl at his feet. Now Sansa sat beside him, lost in a nightmare of her own imagining, and Oberyn could but try to wake her.

“I only wish the gods made such bargains as you suggest,” he said, moving closer to her, reaching out to stroke her damp hair. “I would gladly give myself over to torment if it would spare the ones I love from harm and suffering. But you must see that it is impossible. Those who love us suffer when we do, so there is no sparing them either way. What do you think your sister would feel if she knew all that you have endured? Would she give her suffering up to you simply to spare herself?”

Sansa’s eyes closed. She gave a tiny shake of the head. “No. Never.”

“Then you see how it is.” Oberyn placed his arm around her shoulders and tugged at her arm until she slumped sidewise into his chest. “To love anyone is to know pain. But to love no one is death.”

“And while we live, we must suffer,” said Sansa, her voice muffled against his tunic.

There was something in her manner of speaking that reminded Oberyn of their first meeting. That night, in the gardens of King’s Landing, he had looked upon her and seen no child, but a woman resolved to die before she was dishonored. _Does she still speak of ending her life?_ Doran had asked him, weeks ago, and Oberyn had not known the answer. Weeks later, still all Oberyn knew was that she had never spoken of it to him.

“It is impossible to avoid all suffering,” he said carefully. “But we may protect those we care for. I care for you, Sansa, most truly. I cannot spare you the pangs of your own loving heart, but I mean to protect you from everything else.”

 _No one can protect anyone,_ she had said, only moments before, and Oberyn did not know how to persuade her otherwise. But Sansa did not contradict him. She stirred, sitting up slowly, stealing the warmth of her body from him. 

She sat there, gazing at nothing, and slowly, she nodded.

“We must protect the ones we love,” she said. “Whatever the cost. I hope I am never the cause of your suffering, Prince Oberyn.”

The sweet sentiment did not lessen the sting buried within it. She had only called him Oberyn, in private, since the day he had presented her with her own mare to ride. He wondered what this return to formality betokened.

Ellaria returned then, bearing a vial of dreamwine.

“Someone must speak to the maester about his boy,” she tutted, rummaging through the sideboard. “I caught him flirting with the maids, the potion forgotten in his pocket.”

“Please don’t,” said Sansa hoarsely. “I don’t want him to get into trouble because of me.”

Ellaria’s arch look softened when she glanced at Sansa. “Servants are not beaten here,” she assured her. “He only needs to be reminded of his duties. Oberyn, how many spoons full should I give her?”

Oberyn looked critically at Sansa, taking in the color of her cheeks and the bones sticking out at her wrist. She was not eating as much as she ought, in his opinion, not for a maid of her years, still growing. “No more than three,” he decided. One would calm her, two would make her drowsy, three would ensure that she slept until the morning. More than that, and she might not wake again.

Sansa looked up suddenly, turning first to Ellaria, then to Oberyn. “Mira,” she said, her eyes wide and worried. “I have not seen her, where is she?”

Oberyn opened his mouth but the words caught in his throat. Sansa gazed at him, expectant, and Oberyn took a deep breath.

“I have sent her to the Water Gardens,” he said. “She was ashamed of herself for leaving you alone and said that she did not deserve a position so high in my brother’s trust.”

“Oh.” Sansa looked troubled. “But she isn’t to blame, truly. It was I who left her. There was…”

She looked down, and began picking at the embroidery at her sleeve. “In the alley near the wine shop, a boy was screaming. His master was beating him. I tried to help him. That was when they dragged me inside.” Her voice turned cold and bitter. “It was Littlefinger who ordered the boy to be beaten. He knew I would try to help. He is clever that way.”

Oberyn was too weary to rage any more today. The fresh anger that kindled in his breast was cold, a serpent winding its way around his heart. 

“All who know you know that you have a gentle heart,” he said, forcing himself to speak softly. More vexation from him would only distress her. “This is no great cleverness on the part of Lord Baelish.”

“Here, Sansa.” Ellaria finished measuring the dreamwine out in a tumbler of pomegranate juice and crossed the room to give it to her. “Time for you to rest. And time for you to take your leave,” she added, to Oberyn.

Oberyn rose from the couch, bending to drop a kiss to the top of Sansa’s head. “I shall see you on the morrow,” he said. “Rest well, sweetling.”

“Good bye,” said Sansa.

Oberyn paused long enough at the door to watch Ellaria pull the bed covers over Sansa’s still form. Then, with long strides, he set out in the direction of the stables. He would make his own inquiries at the bazaar. The guards had turned up too little information for his liking.

*

_Sansa_

When she awoke late the next morning, her first thought, before she had even pushed the covers back, was, _I must see Prince Doran._

The maids had seen to her rooms as she slept, and such was the potency of the dreamwine she had taken the night before that Sansa had not awakened, though usually the slightest noise disturbed her sleep. The heavy hangings had been removed from the windows of her chambers, and the shutters left open to allow the cool morning air circulate. Her bath had been prepared, a gown laid out, and a light breakfast of fruit and cheese left on the table in a covered tray. The tea was still warm, though not hot.

Sansa ate quickly, bathed, anointed her sunburnt shoulders with salve, and dressed in the loose gown. Dornish fashions did not require the foundation of a corset, so she was able to manage without having to call the maids back. She brushed her hair in loose waves over her shoulders, dabbed scent to the nape of her neck, then sat and stared in the mirror for a long time. She found herself thinking about the morning of her wedding to Tyrion, how the Queen had stood in her rooms, instructing the maids and the seamstresses as they transformed her into a beauty. She was such a fool; she had honestly believed that the Queen was only giving her a beautiful new gown. Not until Sansa had seen the maiden’s cloak in her father’s colors had she realized she was being dressed for a wedding.

 _This time, at least, I will not be taken by surprise,_ she told herself, even as she laced her fingers together to stop the tremors in her hands. And this time, no one was choosing for her. It ought to have been more of a comfort than it was.

Over the last few weeks Sansa had slowly begun to let her guard down around other people—had put off her armor, as Tyrion had asked to do once, though it had been impossible while she was still in King’s Landing. She could smile here, laugh, even cry without worrying that such expressions of feeling would be twisted into evidence of some treachery. It was such a relief at times that Sansa felt as if she were taller than she had been only two months ago.

Now, though—if she was to do this, she must don her armor again. Her fears must not be visible, or Prince Doran would never take her proposal seriously. She was going to have to convince him to listen to her, and to do that, she must be resolute in her conviction. This was an act, a role she had learned to play as hostage, so Sansa knew that she could manage. It helped that Prince Doran did not yet know her well, and did not seem to possess Oberyn’s disconcerting ability to penetrate the surface of her thoughts and read the misgivings of her heart. Oberyn was too stubborn, too forthright to be put off by courtesies, but Prince Doran, like Sansa, traded in them. He would not agree to her proposal readily, she knew, but if Sansa played her role well, he would not dismiss her out of hand either. 

Oberyn, on the hand…she must not see Oberyn before she had spoken to his brother, or her nerve would desert her utterly.

Sansa had never visited Prince Doran in his solar without being summoned first, and taking such a liberty was strangely terrifying. But when she meekly asked the captain of the prince’s guard to whether Doran might be willing to grant her an audience, the assent came instantly. Sansa walked into the room, and prince looked up at her from his rolling chair with a smile.

He looked better today, Sansa thought, than he had during their last conversation—as though he had been sleeping more, and suffering less. He was dressed in a tunic of fine but plain roughspun silk in a red so dark it was nearly black over black shirt, and his greying hair was combed neatly behind his ears, not mussed with long sleeplessness as it had been at their previous meeting. His dark eyes, which were the most expressive part of his face, regarded her with mild interest as she approached to make her curtsey.

At first glance, Sansa had thought that Prince Doran was as dissimilar to his brother in appearance as he was in temperament. But in truth, they were not entirely unlike. Oberyn looked more like his elder brother when he was quiet and thoughtful, especially when he wore the soft look that sometimes stole over him as he listened to Sansa speak of the past. The lines around their eyes crinkled the same way when they smiled. 

“Good morning, child,” Prince Doran said. “Did I forget our appointment?”

“No, my lord prince,” Sansa murmured. “Forgive me for appearing unexpectedly. If you are busy, I would not disturb you.”

Prince Doran waved. “You find me quite at liberty. Please be seated. Shall I send for tea?”

“Thank you, no, I have only just broken my fast.” Sansa took a seat across from the prince’s rolling chair, in the same chaise where she had sat before. “I hope that you are well this morning?”

“Well enough,” he said, so briskly that Sansa suspected it was not quite true. “What of yourself? After your ordeal yesterday, I did not think to see you at all today.”

Sansa flushed slightly, though it probably was not evident underneath the sunburn. “I took no injury, and I am recovered from the sun sickness. I…I wanted to say how sorry I am. It was foolish of me to go to bazaar, and even more foolish to wander off on my own. I must have upset so many people.”

“I would not have allowed you to go to the bazaar if I had thought it unsafe,” said Prince Doran gently. “It is I who owe you an apology. I misjudged Lord Baelish. Oberyn says that you were briefly alone with him. What did he say to you?”

The question did not alarm Sansa. She was only surprised that no one had questioned her about the details more closely before now. “He knew that I left King’s Landing willingly with Prince Oberyn, though he said that the Lannisters still believe he abducted me. And…he asked me to leave Dorne.” She darted a glance at Prince Doran, and found his gaze inscrutable but intent. “He said that he’s to be married to my aunt Lysa, Lord Arryn’s widow. He wanted to take me to the Vale with him.”

“Lady Arryn is your mother’s sister,” said Doran, with a very faint frown. “Did you not wish to meet her?”

There was nothing in the prince’s manner that suggested he would have disapproved if Sansa had gone off with Littlefinger, but Sansa wasn’t fooled. It was a test. _Why is everything always a test._

“I’m sure it was a trick,” she said quietly. “Lord Baelish does not care whether I ever see my family again.” 

Prince Doran shook his head slightly. “No, he does not. I am glad you understand that. Did he say anything more to you?”

“Yes.” Sansa did not hesitate; she had rehearsed this part in her head while she bathed, while she dressed, while she ate. “Lord Baelish also told me that my sister Arya is alive and married to Lord Bolton’s baseborn son.”

“Oberyn told me. I was sorry to hear it. A daughter of Eddard Stark deserves better than a forced marriage to the son of a traitor and an oathbreaker.” Something soft steals into the prince’s eyes. “I wish that I could offer you some comfort, but I think you understand the ways of the world too well to be comforted by any reassurance I might give you.”

Prince Doran was not easy to read, but he was nothing like Joffrey. Sansa respected him more than she feared him. He _could_ be frightening, she was sure, all powerful men could, but Joffrey’s blows had rained from clear skies, without warning or reason. The prince of Dorne was the opposite; he always had a reason for his actions. That was why she had come to him. He would hear her out, he would listen to her reasons before he made his judgment. 

“You are right,” she said carefully. “I did not come to ask you for comfort. I know there is little to be had.”

The prince tilted his head curiously. “What would you ask of me, then?”

Sansa’s throat was suddenly too dry for words.

“You may speak freely, Lady Sansa.”

She released the breath she had been holding and nodded. She did not think that she could meet his eyes, but that did not matter. It was best to look as humble as possible when making audacious petitions.

“First, please allow me to say…” She twisted her hands together in her lap. “That is. I do not know if I have ever fully expressed to you, how grateful I am for all that you and your family have done for me. I have met with more kindness here in Dorne than I thought to find anywhere in the world. It is more than I expected or deserved, and I hope…I hope you know what affection and loyalty I will always bear for your house.” Sansa paused. “Wherever I might go, and whatever might befall me.”

She risked a glance at him then, and saw immediately that the implications of her final words had not been lost on him.

“I am touched, Lady Sansa,” he said, and it was impossible to tell by his voice whether he truly meant it. “But…?”

Sansa nodded, grateful for the prompting.

“I…I have a request,” she said, irritated that her voice was growing faint just where she wished it to be strong. “My sister is only one-and-ten. It may be that…that she has not yet flowered, that she is still a maid. If that is the case, then…could her marriage not be put aside?”

The prince’s mouth tightened, but he did not look irritated. No, it was compassion that Sansa saw, as though he thought her naïve.

“It could be,” he said, “but Lord Bolton will not do it. His son must have an heir born of your father’s line if he is to hold the North.”

“Yes,” said Sansa, and this time she forced herself to hold Prince Doran’s gaze. “But…my father has another daughter.”

In an instant, all expression had been wiped clean from the prince’s face. He sat very still for a very long moment, until it was all Sansa could do not to look away.

“You are asking me to offer you in trade to Lord Bolton for your sister?” he said at last, as though he only wanted to be certain he understood her fully.

“I am older than Arya,” Sansa explained, looking down at her hands again. “If…if I took her place, Lord Bolton would not have to wait so long for an heir. And Winterfell is my claim now, not Arya’s. He could rule in my name if I were wed to his son.” Her back was already stiff and straight, but she pushed her shoulders back and looked over Prince Doran’s shoulder. “I will never forget that I owe you my life and my freedom. If I returned North, Dorne would always have friends there.”

It was, perhaps, a little too bold of her to make such an assertion. There is no guarantee that Roose Bolton’s bastard will care about the fact that Sansa trusts the Dornish; her friendship might mean little enough once she is again in Winterfell. But Prince Doran was the sort of ruler who looked to the future as well as the present. Perhaps she would have sons one day who would be willing to honor their mother’s ties to Dorne.

Prince Doran’s lips parted, but the words did not leave them right away. “Do you know Roose Bolton and his son, Lady Sansa?”

“No, my lord prince,” Sansa admits. “I have only met Lord Bolton once. I never knew that he had a son.”

He nods slowly. “But you know his reputation.”

She could not flinch. If she flinched, if she seemed afraid, she did not think that Prince Doran would let her go. Never mind that she felt faint when she thought about marrying anyone, let alone a man so awful that even Ellaria, who was never anything but honest with Sansa, would not speak of him. She had only just escaped such a nightmare, and the idea of walking back into it willingly made her want to drink an entire vial of dreamwine. 

But none of that mattered. The only thing worse than marrying a Bolton was thinking of Arya, married to a Bolton. Sansa could survive the one, but the other would kill her by slow poison for years.

“I know a little,” Sansa said, proud when her voice did not waver. “Enough that I would spare Arya, if I could.”

“But not yourself.”

“I am my father’s eldest daughter, it is not my place to spare myself.”

For just a moment, so brief Sansa nearly missed it, Prince Doran shut his eyes. Sansa took the chance to continue pleading her case.

“If I had remained in King’s Landing, where everyone knew that my marriage to Lord Tyrion was unconsummated, perhaps the Boltons would have sealed their alliance with the Lannisters by asking for my hand, instead of Arya’s. It…isn’t right, that she is paying for my freedom.” Sansa saw that she was plucking nervously at her sleeve again, and she forced her hands to be still. “In the North, there is a saying. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If I were to marry Lord Bolton’s son, no one could ever make me leave Winterfell again.”

Prince Doran nodded vaguely, without looking at her. His eyes were trained out the windows, and though Sansa could not turn to look, she could hear the cry of the gulls as they came to perch on the balcony behind her.

Sansa had nothing more to say. Everything she had prepared and rehearsed beforehand had been said. All she could do now was wait for the prince to respond. The longer they sat there together in silence, the more Sansa began to worry that Prince Doran had also said all that he meant to say, that she was expected to take the hint and make her excuses so he could dismiss her. 

“Does my brother know your wishes in this matter?” he said at last, and Sansa almost cringed from guilt. 

“No, my lord prince. I have not seen Prince Oberyn today.”

Sansa understood what Prince Doran must be thinking. Oberyn would not be pleased by this scheme. In taking her from King’s Landing, he had taken responsibility for her safety, and she knew it would sit ill with him if she went North, where he could not follow. He might even take it as an insult that Sansa wished to leave Dorne, after all the trouble he had undergone to bring her here. She had feared that Prince Doran would be insulted as well, but it did not seem as if he was.

A month ago, Sansa would not have dared to ask Prince Doran to arrange her marriage to anyone. She had thought it only a matter of time before she was betrothed to Oberyn—and for weeks, she had waited for one of the princes to raise the question. 

It was only after Oberyn found her on the road to the palace yesterday that the truth had finally dawned on her. Oberyn was devoted to her safety, yet he had never mentioned marriage to her, even though she would be far safer as his wife than as his brother’s ward. He must not want her for a wife, then. And truly, why should he? Ellaria was all the wife he needed. Of course he did not want to be married to a girl of three-and-ten when he had daughters twice her age and more. She could only be a burden to him. Even her claims in the North could not interest him; Oberyn would never leave Dorne, not permanently.

“When word reached me that Oberyn was returning from the capital early, with you in his train, I did not know what to think,” said Prince Doran, the sound of his voice startled her from her reverie. “He had promised me the head of the man who murdered my sister and her children. Instead, he brought me the Lady of Winterfell.” 

“I am sorry you were disappointed, my lord prince,” Sansa said, because what else could she say?

But Prince Doran shook his head. “No, I was not disappointed. I agreed only reluctantly to let my brother attend the King’s wedding, and I regretted it almost as soon as he had set out.” His voice was distant, as though he was speaking more to himself than to her. “I feared greatly that he would never return, you see. But he did return, because of you. I suspect that you are the reason my brother is alive today.” 

Sansa felt heat suffusing her cheeks. The prince had asked her no questions, though, so she made no reply.

“Oberyn has kept you very near to him since you came to Sunspear. Have you enjoyed your time in his company?”

Sansa blinked, surprised. “Yes, of course, very much.”

“But you would leave him. And go north.”

She did not want to think of it that way. She had resolutely avoided thinking of Oberyn at all before begging this audience with his brother. The idea of leaving him, forever—and it would be forever, she knew that much—made her feel sick and afraid. 

“I count Prince Oberyn as my dearest friend in the world, and I would not be parted from him for anything,” she said. “Not for anything, except for my sister.”

“I see.”

It seemed as the prince was drifting towards another long silence, so Sansa gathered the threads of her fraying composure and made one final effort.

“I fear that, so long as I am unmarried, my presence in Dorne can only bring you trouble, my lord prince. I do not wish to be a burden. It would be a poor payment for all your kindness.”

Prince Doran gave her a small, sad smile. “One might say that giving you in marriage to Ramsay Bolton is poor payment for a prince of Dorne to offer the maid who returned his brother to him.”

Sansa looked away quickly. “I do not know that I did, my lord prince. But…if you say it is so…giving me my sister is the greatest gift I could wish for.”

The prince sighed softly, and suddenly he seemed much older. “I will think on all that you have said, Lady Sansa,” he told her. “We will speak again soon.”

Sansa recognized her cue to depart and rose, curtseying. “Thank you, Prince Doran.”

She was blind with tears by the time she made her way past the guards and into the corridor, and the moment she turned the corner she fell against a wall, bracing her hands there as her breath started coming in gasps. It was over, she had done her best, and now she would either lose Arya forever or lose herself in marriage to another monster. The future she hadn’t even realized she had begun to dream of was dissolving like so much mist, leaving a dark hollow space behind. She would never be happy, never be safe, and she had been an idiot to ever think otherwise.

 _Gods help me,_ she thought, as she stumbled down the corridor, tracing the route to her chambers. _What have I done._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you read this chapter on the first day of posting, you should know that I went back to it just now and heavily edited the last few paragraphs of conversation between Sansa and Oberyn. (I was sleep-deprived when I wrote the first version and on re-reading, it felt hurried and jumbled.) The essence is the same, but the wording is a bit different.
> 
> There will be at least one more chapter, and possibly an epilogue after that. Let me take this opportunity to tell you all how much your comments mean to me, how much I savor each and every one of them, especially the long and chatty ones. If you have any questions or comments, I love to talk to about my stories, so don't hold about.
> 
> I am not much of one for song fic, so to speak, but this song has become the unofficial theme of this story, playing in the background while I write: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2ZBCUQieUI
> 
> If you're interested in how I write Oberyn, you may want to subscribe to my author account, because I have at least one more Oberyn/Sansa story and a couple of stories about Oberyn and his daughter's mothers planned for the near future.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

_Oberyn_

“I am worried for Sansa,” said Ellaria that night, after their lovemaking was finished and she lay with her head on Oberyn’s breast, staring up at the underside of the bed canopy.

Oberyn shifted uneasily into the soft bedding. He carded his fingers soothingly through Ellaria’s hair, reluctant to answer. He had worries of his own about Sansa, but he did not like to speak of such things here in the sanctuary of Ellaria’s bed. Ellaria had a loving heart, and he knew that she was too wise and generous to harbor jealousy or resentment towards the maid he had stolen into their lives. But Ellaria had been his paramour these fourteen years. Some hours, some spaces, must belong wholly to her, to the two of them together.

He dared to hope that one day, there would be a time and place for all three of them, wrapped together in this sort of intimacy. The bed was more than large enough for them all. He thought that Ellaria’s heart was also large enough, and no one could doubt Sansa’s generosity. But first, Sansa’ fears must be put to rest. She would take no joy in intimacy, with either of them, until she felt safe enough to doff her armor. But Oberyn saw no signs of that happening. If anything, these last few days Sansa had seemed clad in both mail and plate, her face a shield, her eyes daggers of frost.

Ever since Oberyn had found her on the road, Sansa had been retreating from him. From everyone, Oberyn thought. Hiding somewhere deep inside herself, though she continued to speak the appropriate courtesies and smile graciously when smiles were required. Such courtesies could not but feel like rejections, after Oberyn had held her in his arms and dried her tears. But it wasn’t personal to him. She was no less distant with Ellaria, even with Doran and Arianne and Tyene and Daemon. Dinners these last two nights had been more silent than usual, as if the dark cloud that shadowed Sansa cast its pall over everyone seated near her.

“Her ordeal in the bazaar upset her,” Ellaria said, breaking into his reverie. “Has she said aught to you of what passed between her and this Littlefinger?”

“I know no more than I heard her say to you,” Oberyn admitted. “And that was little enough.” Doran had questioned her more closely, Oberyn knew, but neither he nor Sansa had seen fit to pass further details on to him.

Ellaria hummed thoughtfully. “Nothing else?”

 _Did he touch you?_ Oberyn had barked at her on the road, brutal in his terror. Sansa had said nothing, only put her hands over her face and shuddered. Too much of an answer and too little, all at once. A secret terror had lodged in Oberyn’s heart like a splinter of ice ever since then. He did not want to speak of such monstrosities in Ellaria’s bed, but he had not yet found the courage to speak of them by the light of day.

“I asked her,” he admitted. “But I was too forceful in my asking, and she was silent.”

Ellaria pushed herself up on her elbow and peered down at him. “What is it you fear?”

Oberyn’s mouth twisted, and saying the words aloud cost him. “I fear that his grasping _little finger_ touched what it had no right to touch.”

Ellaria’s gazed down at him in thoughtful silence. “I attended her in the bath. I saw no marks of fresh violence upon her body. Nor of passion. Only scars.”

Oberyn grunted.

“But it is not only violence that can bind a woman.” 

Oberyn sighed again. Gently, he pulled away from Ellaria and sat up against the headboard, drawing her close beside him again once he was settled.

“If it is as you fear,” Ellaria continued, pragmatic as always, “it is no wonder she did not speak of it. In the six kingdoms, they care little whether a maid is taken against her will. They call her a whore all the same.”

Oberyn needed no reminding of that. “She should not be left alone,” he decided. “I would have her attended, even when she sleeps.” 

Not long ago, Sansa had begged poison of him, to save her from such violation. If Baelish had done more than touch her… But he could not speak these fears to Ellaria. Sansa had sworn him to secrecy, and he had already broken her confidence once in telling Doran.

“Why? Lest she weep when you are not there to hold her?” Ellaria was gentle in her teasing. “Sometimes a woman can only weep when she is alone. It is good for the soul.”

Oberyn’s brow furrowed. “You do not weep alone.”

“How would you know?” Ellaria looked up at him and laughed at the consternation she must have seen in his face. “I am not Sansa, my love. I have little enough to weep for. I have a home, I am surrounded by family and by every comfort. And the best man in Dorne shares my bed.” She traced a pattern on his shoulder. “If you give her this last, the rest will follow in time.”

“You sound like Doran.” He had promised to speak to Sansa of their betrothal within the month, and yesterday the month had elapsed. But how could he speak, when she had reverted to curtsies and graces and “my prince” in his presence? He had frightened her on the road, he knew it. If…it was as Ellaria suggested, if Baelish had violated her with more than words and insinuations… _Did he touch you?_ Oberyn could hear in his memory the wild anger behind the words he had spoken to her. Perhaps Sansa had thought them an accusation. 

“Do you think…” Oberyn reached for the comfort of Ellaria’s hand. “Does she shy from me now because she thinks herself despoiled? That I will blame her and cast her aside if she is no longer a maid?”

“If Baelish took her, then yes, I think it possible. I do not think she understands how little we care for such things in Dorne.” Oberyn opened his mouth to deny it, but Ellaria hushed him. “She knows that you would care greatly for the violence done to her, but she may not understand that it is _all_ you care for.”

Oberyn wanted wine, suddenly. The need to piss would wake him in a few hours if he drank now, but he doubted he would sleep at all without it. He reached for the jug and the goblet on the bedside table. 

“You must see, my love, that this all the more reason to make her your own. Once you have betrothed her she will understand that you value her no less for whatever this Baelish stole from her.”

He sighed, loud and long, the wine cup untouched. “For weeks I have walked with her, talked with her, listened through the gaps of all the things she does not say…in all this time, there has scarcely been a fitting moment for such talk.”

“You must know how much she trusts you.”

“Does she?” Oberyn tasted the wine and set it aside.

“A woman whose back is silvered with scars would not permit anyone to comfort her as you have done, if she did not trust you.”

“One day I will collect a head for each one of those scars she bears.”

“You have not seen her bathing. You would need an army to collect so many heads.”

“If that is what it takes.”

“You cannot go to war for a woman who is not your wife.”

“If such befell you—”

“Such will never befall me. Every man in Dorne knows he will pay with more than his life if he offers insult to the mother of the Red Viper’s children.” Ellaria’s fingers curled over his bicep. “Until she has a husband, these Lannisters and their Littlefingers will not stop until they take her from us.”

“I took her from them because she was not safe. She had a husband then.”

“Yet even the King ceased to beat her before the court after she was the Imp’s wife. This is the way of it, with women. So long as she is unwed, she is a prize for any man to claim.”

She was right, and Oberyn knew it. But such truths were no comfort, nor did they make any clearer the path he ought to take.

“It may be that she trusts me as much as she trusts any man. But I feel that I am only close to her heart when she is too frightened to fend me off. I will not have a wife who is frightened of me.”

“There speaks the gallant fool,” said Ellaria, her voice rich with loving mockery. “Sansa is not afraid of _you_ , my sweet idiot. They walk with her, these Lannisters, even here in Dorne. Their voices follow her like ghosts. When she dares to speak of their crimes, she feels their eyes on her, bidding her hold her tongue. Fierce though you are, spears cannot slay ghosts.”

Frustration made him cross, and he had to struggle not to snap at her. “I have done all that is within my power to prove that she is safe here.”

“Yes, you have done. And your labors will reap fruit in due season. It is barely a month since she came here.”

“All the more reason to say nothing of marriage to her now. When she no longer flinches before me, then I may speak of it.”

“And when does she flinch from you? When you come softly into her presence, all smiles and tender eyes? Or only when your passions get the better of you, and you roar and rage and thunder hangs on your brow?” 

Oberyn was silent.

“My prince is fierce,” said Ellaria, her voice tender. “Never fiercer than when he thinks on the evils that befall the innocent. And to look at Sansa is to be reminded of all the evil that was done to her. But Sansa sees your black looks and hears the thunder in your voice and thinks only that she is the cause. Take her, and she will love you truly all the rest of your days, but until she is healed by the Mother’s mercy she will always flinch to see you so warlike.”

Oberyn let his head fall backwards and strike the headboard with a thump.

“Ellaria,” he sais pleadingly. “Truly, I do not know that she wants me. A maid of three-and-ten does not desire a husband with silver in his hair. Mine own eldest daughter is old enough to be her mother.”

“You know nothing of what maids desire.” Ellaria tapped a finger against his mouth. “Nor will you, until you speak to her.”

“Speak to her, yes, while she wanders the halls like a lost soul approaching the gates of the seven hells. She does not speak to me, she does not lift her eyes from her slippers—”

“She doesn’t eat and she doesn’t sleep. I know. That is why I am worried for her.” Ellaria pressed her forehead to his arm for a moment. 

“I brought her to Dorne to save her.” Oberyn rubbed at his eyes. “But every day, it seems there is some new sorrow, some new peril I must save her from. It is hard, my love. I feel that I am failing her.”

“You will not fail her unless you abandon her, and that you will never do.” Ellaria hesitated. “But I worry. If you tarry much longer, I worry that she will leave you.”

“There is no sign of Baelish anywhere in the shadow city. The shariffs have been given his likeness, and Daemon leads daily patrols—”

“I do not speak of Littlefinger, I speak of Sansa.” Ellaria grew still. “Sansa thinks much on this marriage of her sister to the Bastard of the Dreadfort.”

“As do I,” Oberyn admitted wearily. “He had another wife, I am told. Lady Hornwood. To claim her lands, he dragged her before the septons, raped her, and locked her in a tower to starve to death.” More than once, the thought had come to him that a small force, marching without banners, might do to liberate Arya Stark from her husband. Only the knowledge that Doran would never permit such an enterprise has stopped him speaking of it.

“In your eyes, Sansa is half a child, too frightened and wounded to brave any great risks,” said Ellaria slowly, as though choosing her words with care. “But she is stronger than you know. And she loves her sister no less than you loved yours.”

Oberyn craned his head to look down on Ellaria, eyebrows flying to his hairline. “You think that Sansa means to raise and army and march on Winterfell?”

“I do not know what she means to do,” Ellaria said, no humor in her voice. “But she means to do something. Perhaps Baelish laid hands on her, perhaps not. But this great silence of hers…I think she is planning something.”

Oberyn nearly scoffed, because what scheme could a maid of ten-and-three undertake against a lord on the other side of the world? But the smile never reached his lips. 

An image came to his mind—of Sansa, not the broken girl who had clung to him until she was unable to breathe for weeping, but the cold, resolute maid who had stood in the shadows of the godswood and demanded death from him. _One who has learned how to die fears nothing._ It was only when she came to Dorne, where life was offered to her anew, that the stern maid in the godswood let slip her mask and wept for the first time. 

“Will you speak to her?” said Oberyn, hearing and hating the helplessness in his voice.

Ellaria sighed deeply. “I will try, my love. But it is your voice she needs to hear.”

 

*

When Oberyn rose, early the next morning, his conversation with Ellaria was still ringing in his ears. He dressed quickly, bent over Ellaria’s sleeping form to press a kiss against her cheek, then set out in search of Doran.

He halted in his progress when he glanced through a columned aperture leading out into the gardens and saw Sansa sitting on a bench, without nary a maid or guard in sight. It was not yet dawn, and the sky overhead was grey and blue, yet she held an embroidery frame in one hand, a needle in the other. An open casket full of silk threads sat beside her.

Oberyn watched her for a moment, taking advantage of the rare opportunity to observe Sansa when she did not know she was being watched. She kept her eyes fixed on the cloth she was covering with stitches, but once or twice she lifted her gaze to peer out over the flowers and the fountain, before looking down at her work again.

Perhaps it was only the blue light of early morning that made her look so pale, or that made the hollows beneath her eyes seem bruised, but even such soft light could not disguise the sharp jut of the bones in her wrist, or the sunken hollows in her cheeks. Ellaria was right; she was not eating. Nor was she sleeping, it would seem, not if she had managed to make her way here to the gardens without causing any of her attendants to stir.

Worse than this was the air of loneliness that clung to her. Oberyn told himself it was only because he was not accustomed to seeing a woman of her station unattended in public, with no one to guard her or fetch things for her or lift her spirits with amusing conversation. But in his heart, he knew it was more than that. Sansa looked as though she were only too glad of the privacy. Perhaps it was a habit become comfort during her time in the Red Keep. Sansa had often been alone there, Oberyn knew. Her Lannister maids had begrudged her their service, and the guards…the guards had not been charged with keeping her safe. Quite the opposite. 

She had been alone when she came to him in the godswood, and though Oberyn had been watching her from a distance since the day he first arrived in King’s Landing, he had not recognized her immediately. Alone, Sansa stood taller, her meekness cast aside like mask at a revel. So why did she look smaller, alone here in the gardens?

 _Because she does not know you are watching her_ , came the answer, trotting obediently on the heels of the question. _In the capital, it was her strength she kept hidden. From you, she hides her sorrow and her fear._

Oberyn knew that if he strode out into the courtyard to bid her good morning she would lay her embroidery aside, rise, and curtsey, for all the world as if she were the daughter of some visiting lord who had never before exchanged three words with the Red Viper of Dorne. Part of him was loathe to disturb her in the peace of the early morning, but Ellaria’s words from last night weighed heavily on his heart. _It is your voice she needs to hear._

Silent as a serpent stealing through the grass, Oberyn doubled back and took a different entrance to the courtyard, his steps inaudible as he approached the bench where Sansa sat. Not until he swung his legs over the bench and plopped down beside her did she notice him, giving a startled cry and nearly dropping her embroidery onto the dew-damp grass at her feet.

Oberyn snatched the falling embroidery from the air and leaned back again, touching her arm to still her. “Peace, it is only me. I am sorry I frightened you.” He could not say _I did not mean to frighten you,_ because he had surprised her deliberately, and he had known she would be frightened by it. 

“Prince Oberyn.” Sansa greeting was quiet, a little breathless, and she held a hand to her breast as if to calm her racing heart. “Forgive me, I did not hear you.”

“It is difficult to find any true privacy in a palace,” he said, as though he had not invaded her privacy willfully. “I take it you left your maids sleeping.”

“There was no cause to wake them.”

Oberyn made a noncommittal noise, then looked down at the embroidery hoop, still in his hands. “What is this?” he said wonderingly. “You have captured the very likeness of these gardens. You must show Tyene. I have never seen skill with a needle to match hers before now.”

“Tyene has seen,” said Sansa quietly. “I had to leave my sewing casket behind when I came here, but Tyene supplied me with all that I needed.” She gestured to the open casket on the bench beside her.

“Your lady mother taught you this art?” said Oberyn, curious. Sansa spoke so little of the life she left behind in Winterfell.

“My septa,” said Sansa. “From my mother, I learned to make clothing. Winterfell is…unlike the keeps of other great lords. We are…we were so far removed from the rest of the world that all of us, even my lord father’s children, had to do our part in order to supply ourselves with necessities. My mother made all of our clothes, and I began to assist her as soon as I passed her test.”

“What test was this?”

“Twenty stitches to the inch,” said Sansa promptly. She was not looking at him, but Oberyn saw her soft, sad smile nonetheless. “Arya never did manage it. And her embroidery was a nightmare of tangles and knots. She never saw the point to it. I suppose she was right; embroidery is hardly practical. For me, though, it was my favorite pastime—to finish a gown, or a shirt, some garment that was sturdy and plain, then to make something finer of it. I never liked to leave anything that I had made without adornments, even the roughspun gowns for the crofter’s daughters. I would beg my mother for leave to use her silk thread so that I might sew flowers and leaves along the cuffs and the bodice.”

“The crofter’s daughters must have loved their lord’s daughter well, to receive such finery from her hands,” said Oberyn, feeling his heart swell with tender feelings he could scarce put a name to.

“I asked Ellaria if there was no such work I might do here.” Sansa turned away from him, and began to busy herself with putting her casket in order—winding threads round their wooden bobbins, lining needles up in straight rows on a piece of scrap cloth. “She explained that Sunspear imports most of its rough work, and the serving women attend to the sewing themselves. Perhaps it would have been thus in Winterfell, had it not been a journey of three hundred leagues to White Harbor.”

“There is no need for you to do a needlewoman’s chores here, it is true. But if it pleased you to do it, any of our smallfolk would be greatly honored to receive such gifts from your hands.” Oberyn began to trace a finger over the silken grass in the embroidery frame, only for one of the threads to catch against the callouses on his finger tips. Gently, he removed his hand and passed the frame back to Sansa. “Daemon told me that when first he escorted you to the bazaar you bought nothing, but distributed all your coin amongst the poor, down to the last copper.”

“He did not approve.” Sansa’s voice was mild.

“He was much moved by your gentle heart, but he was charged with protecting you, and he feared lest the crowds should mob you.”

Sansa was silent for a long time. “I saw that happen once,” she said. “The day we bade farewell to Princess Myrcella as she left for Dorne. The smallfolk surrounded us on the way back to the palace. They tore the High Septon to pieces with their bare hands. One lady, they carried off…she was already with child by the time the guards found her again. They would have done the same to me, had it not been for Sandor Clegane. But they did not attack us because we were giving alms. They were starving and Joffrey did not care. They threw dung at him and he ordered his Kingsguard to kill them all. He should have given them food instead. They would have loved him for that.”

Oberyn studied her profile. “You think much on the plight of the poor. This is not usual amongst highborn ladies, wherever they hail from.”

“In Winterfell, we did not live at such remove from our poor. They came daily to our halls, and Arya and Bran and Rickon played with their children.” Idly, she touched a knot of colored threads, and Oberyn saw that she had fashioned the likeness of a nesting bird in a copse of grasses. “Our smallfolk went hungry when the harvest was poor, but they could always find a meal in my lord father’s kitchen. There was not such…indifference, to their plight. In King’s Landing, the poor had no land, no crops to plant or harvest. Small wonder that they starved. I sometimes thought…”

Oberyn recognized the hesitation in her voice; she often curtailed her musings thus when she feared that she was saying too much. “What did you think?” he prompted.

“I had a chance to escape, with Sandor, after the Blackwater.” Carefully, she set the embroidery aside and folded her hands primly in her lap. “Afterwards, I thought often of what sort of life I might have made for myself, out there in the world, once I had left my name behind. Sometimes I pictured myself working as a needlewoman for some honest seamstress. A bed and a bowl of soup in the evenings in exchange for my skills. Or else, I might have played my harp and sung my songs to entertain guests at some respectable inn. It did not seem like such a bad life. Not once I learned what had befallen Robb and…and my mother. Better to be an honest laborer, than…” She shrugged.

Oberyn tried to imagine it—this delicate, gracious girl, clad in rough wool, singing her songs of love and valor to a tavern full of drunks and cutthroats. He had passed many an hour in such inns during his travels, and could easily guess the fate she would have met in such a place.

“Perhaps,” he said, trying for humor, “I would have chanced to visit this tavern, where a beautiful girl sang her songs and played her harp.”

“Is that likely? A prince of Dorne, keeping such low company?”

“I have kept lower,” he grinned. “And had I seen you there, forlorn and unprotected amidst so many thieves and murderers, I would have carried you away from them, to play your songs before the prince’s own court. And there you would have been recognized, and the truth of your noble parentage come out. And for love of your beauty and your skill, I would have married you.”

He watched closely as his words found their mark, but to Oberyn’s disappointment, she did not blush. She looked, if anything, sadder than before.

“And then I would have a new song to sing,” she said softly. “Like something from the Age of Heroes. I am sure such things never happen today.”

There was such melancholy in her voice, in her eyes, though she would not look at him, that Oberyn could restrain himself no longer. “Sansa,” he said, for though she would no longer give him his name without titles, he would cling to intimacy on his side for as long a she would permit it. “Is there aught amiss with you?”

Her reply came too readily to be trusted. “I am very well, my prince.”

“Are you, truly?” Oberyn angled his body, the better to look upon her. “To me, you seem very far away. What brings you to these gardens at such an hour, without so much as a guard to stand at your back?”

Sansa bowed her head. “I do not want to forget these gardens,” she said. “I have been happier here than anywhere since I left Winterfell. Even when they fade from my memory, I will have this to remember them by.” Her hand stole to her side, touching the embroidered cloth.

“And why should you forget them, when they are here for you to visit anew each day?”

Her discomfort was palpable in the way her shoulders stiffened. “I am sure I will not stay here forever,” she said, trying and failing to make her voice light. “One day I will marry, and have a new home.”

It was shocking, the jealousy that surged in him to hear her speak of a marriage that would take her away from Sunspear, away from him. 

“What is this?” he said lightly. “Marry? What suitors have made so bold as to address you, without requesting their prince’s leave?”

At this, she did blush, though it seemed to him less the modest blush of a maiden and more the flush of one who has been caught in a secret.

“I have had no suitors,” she said. “What lord or knight would pay suit to me when I am but a stranger here, dispossessed of my father’s lands? No, it seems to me that if I am to marry, I must go begging.” She held her breath for a moment. “I spoke with Prince Doran a few days ago. I believe he will assist me in making a suitable match.”

Oberyn’s stomach filled with ice water. “Doran said this?”

Sansa’s discomfort was profound, judging by the way she wringed her hands, but Oberyn was all but breathing down her neck. She could not avoid giving him an answer.

“I asked him,” she said. “He said that he would think on it.”

Oberyn knew well that _I shall think on it_ was no answer at all, coming from Doran—it was what his brother said when he wished to bring a taxing interview to a close without uttering judgment on one side or the other. But what proposal could Sansa have made to him that Doran would not reject instantly? Oberyn’s betrothal to Sansa was as good as arranged, it lacked only the formality of words. Doran had agreed that it would be so.

“What was it,” said Oberyn carefully, struggling to master his apprehension, “that you asked of my brother?”

Sansa sat still beside him, still as death, as still as though she feared the direct consequences of provoking his displease.

“I…I have asked him…if it is his will…to consider my request that he treat with Lord Bolton. That he offer me in trade to marry his son in my sister’s place.”

Oberyn was up and off the bench before he knew it. He stood before Sansa, looking down at her, incredulity ringing in every pore of his body. She kept her eyes fixed demurely on her hands, resisting the demands of his gaze.

“What madness are you speaking?” he demanded, his voice hoarse.

To his dismay, Sansa did not flinch. If anything, a new boldness seemed to give her strength, and for the first time she lifted her eyes to his.

“It is no madness,” she said simply, as though she had marshaled all her arguments in preparation for this moment of confrontation. “Arya is too young for bedding. The marriage likely has not been consummated. I expect Lord Bolton will be pleased to make new arrangements—”

“Pleased?” Oberyn’s bark of laughter was an ugly sound, uglier than he had ever visited upon Sansa’s ears before. “I daresay he will be very pleased! The Lady of Winterfell, married to that vicious bastard son of his? Lord Bolton has scarcely dreamed of such an honor, I assure you!”

Sansa tried to hide her wince, but Oberyn saw through her now. It was all plain as day to him, her sleepless days, her slow withdrawal from the life of the court, the reversion to formality and courtesy between them. She was untethering her ties, one by one. Her mind was already made up, and all that was left was for her to say her farewells.

Oh, yes, Oberyn understood her. Winterfell was burned and her family scattered, but she was Eddard Stark’s daughter yet. Her sister lay in the power of a monster, and Sansa had no weapons with which to win her freedom--only her name, and her maidenhead. These she would offer up, and never spare a thought for the suffering that lay in her future. After all, she had been suffering continually since the day Ned Stark died; what worse could men inflict upon her? Her father had only the one head to lose.

 _So long as she is unwed, she is a prize for any man to claim._ , Ellaria had warned him, but he had not truly believed her. Sansa was his already, had been his since that dark dawn morning in King's Landing when he met her by the servants' entrance closest to her quarters in the Red Keep and swung her onto the front of his horse, feeling her heart pound in time with his as they made their escape. He had been so confident that no man could take Sansa from him, that it had never even crossed his mind that she might seek to give herself away...

But even as his fingers curled with rage and jealousy, he stayed his hand. He could not shake Sansa until her head rattled, though part of him dearly wanted to. Nor could he order her confined in the Tower of the Sun until she came to her senses. She was the most courageous, the most selfless woman he had ever known--godtouched, by the Maiden's own grace, if Oberyn was not deceived. He would not dishonor her noble heart by treating her like a disobedient child. But if there were another way... _any_ other way to make her see reason... Would he conquer her self-sacrificial stubbornness if he pulled her into his arms and covered her soft skin with kisses, whispering passionate promises into her ears? _No,_ Oberyn thought, _for the more ardently she desires kisses, the more adamantly she will resist them, for the sake of this sister she loves so well._ The austerity of the North ran too deep in her for her to do otherwise.

If not kisses, what was left to him? Tears, maybe. Sansa knew no more of Ramsay Snow than what Ellaria had told her, and that was little enough. Bad enough that Sansa fancied herself willing to wed another Joffrey--bad enough that the mere thought made Oberyn want to fling her over his shoulder and lock her in a high tower room for the rest of her days. But Ramsay Snow was not Joffrey Baratheon. He was something that Oberyn, for all his travels, for all his knowledge of the world, had no name for.

“You think you know what sort of husband this Bolton bastard will make you,” Oberyn said at last. His pacing had taken him across the courtyard, but now he advanced on Sansa with long strides. “But you know nothing. Ellaria shielded you, I shielded you, and so did Doran, it would seem.” Oberyn’s mouth twisted. “You will know the truth before you do this thing. He is a widower, your bridegroom. His former lady, he took for her lands, as he will take you for yours. He raped her until she agreed to stand before a septon and parrot her vows, and once she granted the bastard lordship over her estates, he shut her up in a tower to starve. They say she ate her own fingers before she died.”

Sansa turned whiter and whiter, and then she turned green. Oberyn was looming over her now, and at this angle he could see the tears that stood unshed in her eyes.

 _"You_ , he will not starve," Oberyn continued. "You will be spared, if one could call it such. He will keep you alive, and night after night he will take his pleasure on you. And his pleasures--they are not like other men's pleasures. The scars you bear now will soon be hidden under new scars. However meekly you answer him, whatever obedience you give him, still he will hurt you, because pain is his delight."

He could tell her more. He could tell her worse. He could tell her about Balon Greyjoy’s heir, flayed and emasculated. He could tell her that both her younger brothers had been burnt alive and hoisted outside the gates of Winterfell, at the bastard's instigation. Oberyn opened his mouth to continue, but before he could draw breath his eyes caught hers, and his throat dried. 

If he had sought to terrify her, to make her cry, then he had succeeded. As victories went, it was not sweet. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, but he could not relent, not until she had capitulated.

“Well?” he demanded. “I your bridegroom to your liking? You and this Flayed Man of Bolton, will you say you are well-matched?”

Sansa looked away, shutting her eyes tight. She murmured something inaudible, and Oberyn barked at her, demanding that she speak up.

“I _say_ ,” said Sansa, her voice ragged, _“better me than Arya.”_

Oberyn took a step backwards. His composure was hanging by shreds, but Sansa, for all her trembling, for all the tears that stood in her eyes, was as poised as she had ever been. 

He had reached her, yes, but not in the way he had hoped. He had torn away the veil of her illusions, but he had not shaken her determination. She knew now, what sort of fate awaited her in the North, but still she would embrace it with arms wide open. All Oberyn had accomplished was to make her afraid of _him_ , too.

 _She will always flinch to see you so warlike_ , Ellaria had told him, but Sansa was not flinching now. She was frightened, she was grieved, but she was unbending.

“This is madness,” Oberyn said again, pleading mingled with command. “Put it from your head.”

Sansa looked down at her lap. “I await the judgment of Prince Doran,” she whispered.

“Stranger take my brother!" Oberyn threw his hands up, tearing at his hair. "I say that _I_ will not allow it! Do you think I took you from that den of murderers and rapers only to see you become the bride of a murderer and a raper?”

A long silence stretched between them—a silence that was all the louder for the shouts that had been ringing throughout the courtyard moments before. When Sansa did not look up, did not say anything further, Oberyn realized it was useless. If he said more, he would only frighten her more, and that, he could not bear. He already felt as sick as Sansa looked.

Never before had Oberyn departed Sansa’s company without a bow or a smile or words of gentle farewell. But there was no courtesy left in him this morning. He spun on his heel and stalked back into the palace, his strides eating up the distance all the way to Doran’s solar. This was his brother’s fault, this scheme of Sansa's, but it stopped now. Doran would _make_ it stop.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me to the end! I have left the ? up on the chapter count because I am hoping to write an epilogue, but it will have to wait until I catch up on work deadlines, probably. Please, please, if you enjoyed this story at all, leave me a comment and tell me what you liked, or didn't like, or what questions you have, or what fabulous AU scenarios you're envisioning for Oberyn and Sansa in this story or in some other world. We rarepair shippers have to depend on each other for our flails and feels.
> 
> My tumblr, btw, is branwyn-says, and you are free to follow me there, although I am only just getting back into using it after a long hiatus. If you wanted to contact me privately for any reason, you can use the ask function and I'll try to get back to you promptly.

_Doran_

Many years ago, Doran had given Areoh Hotah standing orders that Oberyn was to be admitted to his private chambers whenever he wished. Unless Doran gave explicit directions to the contrary, no one was to bar his brother’s way when he sought audience with Doran, whatever the hour of day or night. As ruling prince of Dorne, it was only meet that he maintain a certain formal distance between himself and members of his court. But Doran and Oberyn were the only children of their mother yet living, and it was also meet that family have its privileges.

There was, therefore, no one to save Doran when Oberyn came bursting into his solar just after sunrise, his face a black study, looking as though he wanted nothing more than to breathe fire down Doran’s neck. Hotah had let him pass, but he had taken note of Oberyn’s bearing. Hotah and his axe had followed Oberyn as far as the doorway, and Doran noted that the captain of the guard kept his eyes fixed on Oberyn as he stalked down the center of the room.

“Doran!” At the last moment, Oberyn seemed to remember himself. He halted before Doran’s chair and waited for Doran to acknowledge him with a nod. “What game is this you are playing?”

_Ah,_ Doran thought. _He has talked to Sansa. Well, so. It was only a matter of time._

“Would you care to be more specific?” Doran folded his hands and gave brother a mild countenance. He was, at any given moment, playing all manner of games. Oberyn knew this better than most. 

“Why does Sansa believe that you mean to give her to the Boltons?” Oberyn’s voice burst out, fury and betrayal mingled in his tones.

“Did she say so? Then she misspoke.” Doran shrugged. “I made her no promises. I said only that I would think on it.”

“And what, pray, is there to think on?” Oberyn demanded. “Do you think me simple, brother? You would as soon give her to a pack of mad dogs as give her to the Boltons!”

Mad dogs the Boltons might be, Doran thought, but at the moment his brother was the one who looked fit to foam at the mouth. 

“Sansa is aware of the perils of such a match,” Doran said evenly. “And as my ward, she is well within her rights to ask me to arrange the marriage she desires—”

“What does she know of desire?” Oberyn thundered. “It is blood sacrifice she intends—her life, for this sister of hers. She would martyr herself. And with your blessing, it seems!”

“Sansa sees it differently,” said Doran. The louder Oberyn shouted, the more placidly Doran replied. It was an effective trick, one he learned long ago. It forced Oberyn to calm his passions and listen with both ears.

“To Sansa, this marriage of her sister’s is nothing less than a call to arms,” Doran continued, watching as Oberyn began to pace the room. “It may, as you say, cost her life. But she feels she has every right to join the fray. And I do not think it is for _you_ to deny her—not when you have risked your own life for many a less noble cause.”

“ _She_ is a maiden. _I_ am a prince of Dorne,” Oberyn hissed. “I leaned to grasp a spear as soon as I could walk. Battle is my birthright.”

“Boy or girl, we fight our own battles,” Doran countered. “Did you not say as much to Obara, once? Your daughter chose to take up your spear. Sansa mastered different weapons. Marriage, the birthing bed, these are the wars she was trained for.”

“She is a child!” Oberyn bellowed, from the far side of the room.

“She was but two-and-ten when they married her to Lord Tyrion. _You_ were not so battle-tested when you were her age.”

“That is beside the point!” Oberyn dragged his hand through his hair. “I took her away from all that. She was meant to be safe here. To laugh and play and grow strong, until she learned to be happy again.”

Doran opened his hands, a gesture of helplessness. “I daresay she would be happier if she bestowed her hand on some worthier man. But she did not ask me to make her happy. She asked me to help her save her sister. Alas that I am not her father, only her guardian.”

“Yes, you are her guardian.” Oberyn placed both hands on the table between them and leaned in to glared at him. “How will you _guard_ her from that monster and his perversions when she is his wife?”

Doran shrugged again. “I am only her guardian until she marries. Once she takes a husband, I have no further right to meddle in her concerns.”

Oberyn’s nostrils flared. He straightened, and ceased his pacing, and this new stillness carried more threat than all his flailing theatrics.

“Do not taunt me, brother,” he said quietly. “I am not deceived. You would no sooner give Bolton’s bastard Sansa for a bride than you would give him mine own niece.”

“Do you think so?” Doran rolled his chair closer to the balcony windows, ignoring the pain that licked up the sides of his legs like tongues of fire. “Then I wonder at this display of passion. If you know me so well, why rant and wave your arms about so forbiddingly?”

“Because Sansa does not know you as I do!” Oberyn shouted. “She believes this marriage all but settled, and she suffers for it. Have you seen her of late? She is sick with fear, and she will accept no comfort. This was cruelty on your part, Doran. It was cruel to let her persist in this delusion. I thought better of you, truly I did.”

Doran watched as his brother approached the windows, touching his hands to the glass, looking out on the sea. The lines of his face were scored deep with grief, and despite everything, it pained Doran to see it.

“I might have done as you would have had me do,” Doran said slowly, choosing his words with care. “I might have forbidden the marriage, and told her to put all such thoughts from her head. But to me, that seemed a greater cruelty than what you propose. How can I bid her forget what she can never unknow? So long as Sansa believes that it lies within her power to aid her sister, she has hope. I chose not to snatch that hope away from her.”

“It was a false hope,” said Oberyn sternly. “And it was unkind to let her cling to it. She should be grieving for her sister, praying for her at the Maiden’s alter, not cherishing fantasies of a rescue than can never be.”

“Should she?” said Doran, allowing sharpness to enter his voice. “Is this how I should have dealt with you, in all these long years since Elia’s death? Each time you spoke to me of vengeance, should I have urged prayer instead?”

Oberyn’s head jerked up, his face drained of all color. “This is not the same.”

“I disagree.” Doran fixed his brother with his gaze. “Against my will, I allowed you to go to King’s Landing, knowing that your only purpose was to slay the Mountain that Rides, a man who has never been defeated in single combat. I counseled you, persuaded you, begged you to think better of it, but you declared that it was your right to avenge our sister, whatever the peril. Against my will, you went, and when I bade you farewell on this very terrace, I looked long into your face, knowing that it was like to be the last time I ever beheld it.”

Oberyn’s expression softened, but it was with grief, rather than understanding. “This was not,” he said repeated slowly, “the same thing.”

“No, it wasn’t. Elia is dead these many years. To the best of my knowledge, Bolton’s bride still lives. Having granted you your wish to avenge Elia’s death, how much less could I have refused Sansa’s wish to save her sister’s life? Sansa loves Arya Stark no less than you loved Elia. Indeed, her love burns all the brighter, for she has no other family.”

If this interview continued much longer, Oberyn would be bald by the end of it, Doran thought, as he watched his brother tug at his hair yet again. “She is a _child,_ ” he said raggedly.

“If she were a squire of the same age, no one would doubt her right to go to war.”

“She is not a squire, she is a maiden! She sings pretty songs, she embroiders in silk, she plays the harp! She wields neither sword nor spear!”

“Just so,” Doran said. “She is much more than a squire. She is the Lady of Winterfell, destined to become one of the greatest powers in Westeros. This marriage with the Boltons would restore her to Winterfell, the seat of her family’s strength. Two days ago, she stood where you stand and said as much to me—‘There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.’ There is peril in this marriage, but Sansa also understands that there is much she might gain by it.”

All of a sudden, the fight seemed to bleed from Oberyn’s body. He sank onto the chaise positioned near Doran’s chair, and there was such helplessness, such fear in his expression that, to Doran, who had known his brother since he was squalling babe, it was as if the years had peeled backwards like the pages of a book. Oberyn was no more than a boy again in his eyes, the same boy who had always looked to his elder brother to set the world to rights.

_It is enough,_ Doran decided. The lesson—if lesson it was—had made its mark. Oberyn saw now, as clearly as he was ever like to, that this girl he had taken to his heart was not a sorrowing maid from some tale, some innocent lass who would be content to spend all the rest of her days sighing with her head on her prince’s knee. 

It might have been better for Oberyn if Sansa _had_ been some orphaned knight’s daughter, without name or land or claim—but Doran had warned Oberyn about this, the first night after their return to Sunspear. _She is not a lesser person_. By birth, and by the deaths of her father and brothers, Sansa Stark was Doran’s equal, not Oberyn’s. Doran would have been willing to spare her much on account of her sex and her tender years, but Sansa had no desire to be spared. If Oberyn wanted her, he would have to understand that. 

His brother was a proud man. Truly, Doran was not certain how Oberyn would react once it finally dawned on him that Sansa’s rank, her claims of blood, would always come before his. If Oberyn married her, he would still be first in the eyes of his own people—but outside of Dorne, it would be a different matter.

Doran cleared his throat, trying to break the gloomy reverie that had settled over the room. “Is it your wish to marry her?”

“You know that it is,” Oberyn said, still quietly seething.

“Mind what I say, brother. I speak of marriage, not betrothal. Before, I agreed with you that Sansa should be given the benefit of a long engagement, but I can no longer keep to that promise. The risks, to her and to us, are too great. She must marry, the sooner the better.”

Oberyn rose slowly from his chaise, stepping forward until he had a good view of Doran’s face. He gazed down at Doran for a long moment, and a bitter awareness marred the line of his mouth. 

“I see,” he said slowly. “All of this—” Oberyn gestured vaguely, indicating the past half hour of conversation, “it was for my benefit, was it not? You never meant to marry her to the Bolton bastard. This was a farce, to force my hand.”

Oberyn was exaggerating. Had Sansa not come to Doran herself with this Bolton scheme in mind, Doran would never have raised it to her, not in a hundred years. He was not so unfeeling as that, and in truth, it had made him rather ill even to hear Sansa explain her purpose. But he had learned something important from that interview—namely that the maiden his brother loved, the maiden that Oberyn himself thought some flower trodden and crushed under the boots of the Lannisters, had forged a spine of steel during the years of her captivity. There was no peril she would not brave at need. Doran had admired her, even honored her for her courage—but at the same time, he had not been above using it to teach his brother a lesson.

“Between the two of you, you left me with no choice.” Doran did not bother to restrain his frustration. “You have dragged your heels for so long that Sansa has no doubt concluded you do not want her. Why else should she come speaking to me of Boltons?”

It was petty, perhaps, but Doran took some small satisfaction from Oberyn’s look of dismay.

“And as for Sansa…” Doran did not quite roll his eyes. “With no husband to restrain her, the gods above know what recklessness she will undertake next. Perhaps she will beg me to arrange her marriage to the King Beyond the Wall, to keep her brother safe from wildlings. She is nothing less than your equal for foolish gallantry, brother. You had best watch her closely, if you mean to keep her.”

Oberyn’s face was a study in conflicting passions—relief, dismay, joy, trepidation. He turned first to the window, then back to the chaise, as if he did not know where he ought to settle. “I never meant to marry her at three-and-ten,” he whispered.

“Better you should bed her at three-and-ten than that she be bedded half a year hence by the Bastard of Bolton. You, at least, will not forget how the Lannisters scarred her back and promised her rape. The bastard would not forget this either, but it would only make him the more eager to steal what innocence she has left.”

Oberyn leaned forward until his elbows touched his knees, and with both hands he covered his face. When at last he lowered his hands, his cheeks were dry, but his eyes were red.

“You do realize that she may well refuse me?” Oberyn’s mouth twisted. “A week ago, I feared that she would accept me out of hand, for fear or for duty. Yet now that she believes you serious about this Bolton scheme, she may reject me for her sister’s sake.”

Luckily, Doran had anticipated this objection, and prepared for it. He rolled his chair over to his desk and took from it a letter he had received only that morning—a report from his best agent in upper Westeros, one who had been busily inquiring into the chaos that spread from King’s Landing in the wake of Eddard Stark’s death.

“If that is her only objection,” Doran said, “then it is easily overcome.” He offered the letter to Oberyn, who received it with an expression of utter bafflement. 

“Consider it a betrothal gift,” Doran added, as Oberyn began to read.

*

_Oberyn_

Sansa was not in the gardens when Oberyn went seeking her. Nor was she in her chambers. Her maids—both new to Sansa’s service—were not yet familiar with their mistress’s habits, nor had Sansa taken them into her confidence. They could not tell him where she was to be found, either.

Oberyn had a few ideas of his own where Sansa might go for privacy, but both the sept and the bench next to the reflecting pool were deserted. Finally, with no little trepidation, he climbed the stairs in the Tower of the Sun. As soon as he emerged onto the roof, the wind that came barreling through the crenellations nearly tore his head off.

Sansa was there, however. She sat with her slim body wedged into the narrow gap between two crenellations, looking down at the sea below. Her arms circled her knees, and her knees were pushed up almost to her chin. 

All she had to do was lean a little to her right, and she would plummet into the sea, to her death. But she could just as easily lean to the left, and plant her feet on solid ground. Oberyn could not tell by looking at her which of the two she intended.

He stared at her, speechless and afraid, for a long moment. But then she glanced in his direction, and the smile she gave him seemed to suggest that she knew what he was thinking. Before the door had finished creaking shut behind him, Sansa was on her feet, giving Oberyn that quick, correct curtsy he had come to despise. 

Sansa darted a quick glance over her shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said dryly. “I won’t be throwing myself from any towers until _after_ the marriage is consummated.” 

Fear and guilt sank teeth into Oberyn’s heart. Sansa had been melancholy this morning, perhaps, but she was not yet plotting future suicide. That was Oberyn’s doing—it was he who had taken it upon himself to explain to her just what the future held in store for her as Ramsay Bolton’s bride. Little wonder her mind had stolen to high castle walls and the relief they might afford the desperate.

Oberyn’s mouth was already open to explain how wrong he had been when Sansa cut him off—something she’d never done before.

“Will you promise me something?” she said quietly.

Of course, there was nothing Oberyn could do but give her his word.

“Don’t make me go North alone,” she said. Her voice might have been trembling, or it might only have been the wind. “Send a few of your men with me, please. I—I’ll want to sign contracts before the marriage, and I’ll need guards at my back if I’m to have any chance of setting my own terms. And then—if Prince Doran is willing—I want Arya to go back to Dorne after the wedding. I would have her fostered here, in my place. If she remains at Winterfell, the Boltons will only marry her off to someone else equally horrible.”

Sansa turned her back to him again when she was finished speaking. Her small hands grasped the crenellations as she stared out into the distance. The wind lashed wildly at her hair, until it streamed, a bright banner of red, against the azure sky.

“Sansa…” Oberyn’s voice was hoarse. “Look at me, please.”

“I can’t,” she said quickly. “I’ll start crying if I do.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “I know how you must despise me, how ungrateful you must think me. I must seem so stupid to you—a stupid little girl, walking back into the same trap as before. But Arya’s nothing like me, you’ll see. You’ll like her. She’s better than I am at everything that’s actually useful. You can teach her how to use a spear, and daggers, and poisons—all of it. She’ll worship Obara and Nym. She could make a true home here. If…if she found welcome.”

Oberyn didn’t know what disturbed him more—that Sansa doubted whether her sister would find refuge with his people, or that she honestly thought there was any chance he would have sent her North all by herself, without a single Martell spear at her back to guard her. Ser Arys had come all the way from King’s Landing to guard Myrcella, and many years ago Areo Hotah had traveled from Norvos to guard Doran and the Lady Mellario. The years Sansa had spent as a prisoner in King’s Landing had made her forget what was due to her as the daughter of a great family. Or perhaps she truly did believe that Oberyn despised her now, and would begrudge her these rights.

For a long moment, Oberyn was stymied by all the different protests and assurances that came burbling to the tip of his tongue. But then he remembered why he had sought Sansa out in the first place, and his mind cleared again.

“Look at me, Sansa.” His voice was stronger this time, more command than plea, and dutifully, Sansa turned. There were a few tears winding in tracks down her face, but Oberyn resisted the urge to dry them.

“Read this,” he said, and offered her the letter that Doran had given him only an hour ago. “Read it before you say aught else.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, but she took the letter. She was a fast reader, and unlike most people, her lips didn’t move as she traced the letters. There were only a dozen lines of writing, and Oberyn watched as she read them once, then again, then a third time. Her face was as pale as the parchment itself, but two bright spots of hectic color stood out on her cheeks.

“This…” She shook her head slowly. “This is a trick.”

“No. That,” Oberyn nodded to the letter, “is the truth. The trick was Littlefinger’s. He made you think that his only purpose in abducting you was to entice you into accompanying him to the Vale, but he knew better—he knew you would never trust him so easily. _This_ was his real purpose. He made you believe that your sister was a prisoner of the Boltons because he knew that you would not rest until you had made your way North in hopes of saving her. But you would never have made it so far as Winterfell. Baelish had been lying in wait for you all the while.”

Sansa covered her mouth with her hand, but she seemed unable to tear her eyes away from the letter. It trembled in her hand like an autumn leaf in the breeze, and her hand trembled with it.

“This girl they have married to Bolton’s bastard is not your sister,” said Oberyn gently. “It is some other maid of the right age with the Northern look about her. The Boltons know, but it is no matter to them. No one has seen Arya since she was a child, so none may gainsay them when they present the imposter as Eddard Stark’s daughter.”

“Then…” Sansa’s voice was faint and small, almost childlike. “Then Arya is not truly alive after all.”

“My brother believes that she is,” said Oberyn hastily, cursing himself—he should have begun thus. “The same man who delivered him this report says that a girl of Arya’s description was seen two months ago, boarding a ship to Braavos. He is continuing to make inquiries after her there.”

_“Oh.”_ Sansa’s breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her throat. The wind began to tug the letter from her grip, and Oberyn caught it, rolling it back into a scroll and tucking it into his belt.

Sansa turned back towards the crenellations, groping for them unsteadily, and only by the shuddering of her shoulders did Oberyn know that she was weeping again. Was it for relief? Some new sorrow? He would never know if she did not speak of it, but she had ceased speaking to him of such things these last few days.

All at once the distance between them was more than Oberyn could bear. He wanted to tear her away from the embrace of rough stone, seize her and hold her close to him. Instead, he spoke to her—lightly, even feebly, as he struggled to reign in his own passions.

“There is no need to waste your tears on an unfeeling stone when mine own shoulder is at your disposal,” he said, taking a step or two closer.

She did not turn to him immediately. Once, she might have done, but it was as if she had forgotten the welcome she had once received in his arms. Oberyn was desperate, however, and he tugged lightly at her arm, pulling her towards him, and no sooner did she face him than she began to crumble, as though all strength was fleeing her body. Oberyn lunged forward to catch her, to hold her up, whispering nonsense into her hair as he did so.

There were so many things he longed to say to her—pleas, apologies, words of comfort—but not here, on this tower, where she had looked out over the sea and dreamed of her own death. Clutching Sansa tightly against his side, Oberyn banged on the door until the guard without opened it. Oberyn led Sansa down two flights of twisting stairs until they reached a set of apartments that were kept prepared at all times to receive guests. There was a sofa near the window, and he led her over to it, sitting down next to her, wrapping his arms around her again without waiting for an invitation. 

Only when her crying gave way to sniffles, and then to silence, did he kiss her hair and pull away from her, just far enough to see her face.

“I must beg your forgiveness,” he said, as softly as he could. “I had no right to speak to you as I did earlier. You are gentle, and noble, and songs should be written to your bravery. Your courage…it terrified me.”

“You, _terrified?”_ said Sansa. Her voice was bitter, and thick with tears. “If you were me, you would have gone North and slit Ramsay Bolton’s throat and been done with it.”

“But take away my spear, my daggers, my strength, my wealth, my family...” Oberyn grasped her wrist. “Tell me that with my wits alone I must survive coupling with such a monster, and you would soon see how brave I am.” 

He ran the back of his knuckles down the length of her hair. “You were clinging to your courage by a thread, and instead of comforting you, I only tried to frighten you more. I should have kissed your hand and pledged to take you North at the head of a mighty host, with a thousand spears at your back, and myself as your own sworn shield.” He shook his head. “Better still, I should have ridden North myself, and fetched both Arya to your side, and the head of this oathbreaker to lay at your feet.”

“You should not have done any of those things,” said Sansa, her voice somehow chiding and exasperated and grateful all at once. “But I thank you for the sentiment, my prince.”

Oberyn sighed, loud and long. Even now, he was still _my prince_ to her. 

_She must marry, the sooner the better,_ Doran whispered in his ear. _So long as she is unwed, she is a prize for any man to claim,_ counseled Ellaria in the other.

The time was not ripe. He should wait until he was again master of himself—wait, at least, until Sansa had not been these two days weeping, thinking herself as good as Bolton’s plaything already. He should wait the three years he had promised her, though she knew nothing of that promise. 

Many a maid married at three-and-ten, but as a rule, not to men of five-and-forty. And those that did marry at such a tender age had not been tortured, or threatened with rape, as Sansa had. Who knew whether she could ever cherish a wife’s feelings for him? Oberyn himself was by no means certain that he had all of a husband’s proper feelings for Sansa. When he looked at her, he felt none of the heat and camaraderie that Ellaria elicited in him. All he knew for certain was that the thought of any other man—be he true knight or scheming trickster or vicious bastard boy—laying hands on her made his blood boil until heat warped all his vision. And it was only a matter of time before one such stepped forward to claim her.

_Ellaria says I must do this_ , he remembered, even as he reached for Sansa’s hand and brought it lightly to his lips. Ellaria was not like Sansa, but she, at least, had once been a maid of three-and-ten. And she was wiser than he, in all things. _If Ellaria thinks it well done, I cannot stray too far._

“I did not wish to speak to you of this so soon,” Oberyn said, when he again found his voice. “I wanted to give you years—years to laugh, to play in the Water Gardens, to understand that you are safe here. You are only a maid, for all your courage. Should any man say to my younger daughters what I am now saying to you, I should as like kill them as not.”

Sansa’s eyes were wide and bewildered. But she did not, Oberyn thought, look frightened. He held to that as he plunged forward.

“But your own lord father is gone, and now there are many evil men in this world whose eyes are fixed on you. I do not mean to risk losing you to them ever again.”

“Do you mean—is Lord Baelish—” Sansa’s voice faltered.

“No.” Oberyn gave a sharp shake of the head. “Fear nothing from him. He worked his mischief in telling you of your sister, and was away from Sunspear long before I found you on the road. He dared not risk being taken by my men. But there are other men of his kind. Men who would stop at nothing to possess you.” Oberyn hesitated, some grim honesty propelling him forward. “And I fear I am no better than any of them.”

Sansa’s breath hitched. Oberyn dropped his gaze to her hands, lacking the courage to meet her eyes.

“I have been yours since the day I first laid eyes on you in the godswood,” Oberyn said, finding even as he spoke that his words were nothing but the truth. “Now you must be mine as well. Be my lady wife, a princess of Dorne. I will shield you. I will avenge every insult you have ever borne. Be mine, and my life and honor will be yours. I swear this to you, before the gods of your fathers and the gods of my mothers.”

The words were spoken and could not be called back. For a long, terrifying moment, Oberyn was afraid Sansa would not answer him. Every obstacle, every objection Oberyn had foreseen—her age, her fear of men, her homesickness for the North—rose up before him, and it was all he could do not to fall to his knees and plead.

_And what if she does refuse you?_ asked a voice, deep in the back of his mind. _What will you do then?_

He would do as he had always done, Oberyn decided. If Sansa would not marry him, Doran would no doubt offer her other suitors—the heirs and scions of Dorne’s great houses. Oberyn would stand over his brother’s shoulder and take the measure of those suitors, first in conversation, then in the sparring ring. He would insinuate himself with their sisters and mothers, interrogate their servants, watch them dance with Sansa at every feast, and if they so much as trod on her slippers, Oberyn would see them sent away and wait for a worthier man to present himself. 

Whether she would be his wife or no, Sansa had been his to protect since the night Oberyn stole her away from King’s Landing. He would never relinquish that duty. Even when it was taken up by another, Oberyn would be there in the offing, ready to step forward when she needed him.

“I thought…” Sansa’s voice, when she at last spoke, was so faint that Oberyn had to bend lower to hear her. “I thought you did not want me.”

Of all the things Oberyn had feared she would say, this had not even entered his mind. He could only gawp at her.

“I expected that we would be betrothed as soon as I arrived in Sunspear,” she said, distress and confusion ringing in her voice. “But weeks went by, and you said nothing. Prince Doran said nothing. Yet now…”

Sansa lifted her face to his. She studied him for a moment, then her eyes cleared. “I see,” she murmured. 

“What do you see?”

She did not reply immediately. She wet her lips and exhaled shakily, casting her eyes down to her lap. “It is not for me to refuse a prince of Dorne,” she said, her tone even, nearly expressionless. “If you will have me for your wife, then I—I will guard your honor and b-bear your children, and be grateful every day for your kindness.”

An obstruction the size of a plum pit seemed to be lodged in the back of Oberyn’s throat. This—this was worse than refusal. This was everything he had feared when he told Doran that he would not be betrothed to Sansa as a matter of mere political expediency.

“You mistake me, Sansa,” he said, and just in case it was the last time he would ever have the liberty of doing so, he cupped her cheeks in his hands and tilted her face up to look at him. “Whether as my wife or as my brother’s fosterling, I will protect you as I have always done. And we shall always be friends, so long as that is your desire. Ellaria will be your friend as well.” He traced the fine arch of her eyebrow with his thumb. “But I will not marry you for duty. If you will take me for your husband, you must take me for love—if not so great a love as that which I bear for you, then at least some small shoot from the same tree that will bear fruit in its season.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. When the seconds passed, and no words passed from her lips, Oberyn bent his head to kiss her. It was nothing more than a dry press of his lips to hers, his tongue darting out for the briefest of moments to taste the inside of her mouth, before he released her again.

When Oberyn looked upon Sansa’s face again, he found that tears were trickling from the corners of her eyes. But she did not look as if she were afraid. She looked as though she had just seen the sun rise in the west.

“I…” 

“What, Sansa?” It was all Oberyn could do to restrain his impatience, his fear, but since he first brought her into this room, he had done almost all of the talking. He needed to hear her voice, perhaps even more than she needed to speak.

Just like that, her face crumpled. Before Oberyn knew what was happening, Sansa threw herself against his chest, and Oberyn could only clutch at her, listening for the words she gasped between sobs.

“I never thought anyone would love me ever again,” she was saying, clinging to his cloak as though it were all that held her upright.

Her words acted on him like some enchantment, loosing him from all restraint. Oberyn caught her up in his arms, pulling her half across his lap, and for the first time, he availed himself of a lover’s privilege—carding his fingers through the long, wind-tangled mass of her hair. He whispered to her as well, foolish words that would shame him should any but Sansa overhear them, and pressed small kisses to her forehead, her cheek, and once, her ear, which made her giggle through her tears.

In his delirium, it seemed to Oberyn for a long moment that there was no reason for them to ever to leave this spare tower bedchamber. It was high and protected, and there was a bed, as well as a guard to fetch them food and water when needed. But it was Sansa, as ever, who reminded him of their duty.

“You must tell Prince Doran,” she said, even as she lay boneless and sweet in his arms. “And…Ellaria. She will not…she won’t be…?”

“She will kiss you soundly, and tell me that I took my sweet time about it.” Oberyn sighed gustily, for happiness, for relief, for other feelings he could not put a name to. Something had clicked into place inside him, something that had jarred and jangled loose in his chest for weeks. He felt like a man just cured of a mortal illness. “Sweet Sansa. We would have been betrothed weeks ago had I listened to Ellaria or to my brother. It was I who was stubborn. I wanted you to know me, first. I did not want you to take me for fear, for gratitude, or gods forbid, for the _good of Dorne._ ” He groaned.

“But I have known you these many weeks,” said Sansa, sounding confused. The tip of her nose was red from weeping, and Oberyn kissed it before he could help himself.

“I wanted you to trust me,” he explained. “The knowing comes first, the trusting after.”

Sansa sat up, and though Oberyn’s hands held her fast upon his knees, she maneuvered enough to look him in the eye. “I have trusted you these many weeks,” she told him, seriously and just a bit slowly, as though she thought him dense.

Oberyn’s mouth opened and closed. “Have you, my love?”

She nodded, her little face wise and somber. “Since that day in the sept,” she said. “With Ser Arys.”

Oberyn remembered that day well—the shock that had surged through him when his fingertips grazed the scars on Sansa’s lower back, the red mist that clouded his vision when he looked again on Ser Arys, realizing that _there stood the man_ responsible for at least some of those scars.

“You nearly drew your dagger on him,” Sansa continued. “But I put my hand over yours, and you stopped. You…you might have shaken me aside without a thought, but you didn’t. Ever since then…I have felt that my word meant something to you. And if you trusted me, how could I not trust you?”

Oberyn could not have said which frightened him more: the knowledge that he had come within a hairsbreadth of betraying that trust and opening the white knight’s throat there at the feet of the Stranger, or the knowledge that Sansa’s trust had been his all this while, a delicate, fragile thing that he might easily have crushed and never been the wiser.

Or perhaps the worst of it was the knowledge that Sansa trusted so easily—that she had been so dishonored before she came to him that all it had taken to win her regard was a gesture so slight that Oberyn had taken no notice of it at the time.

If she did love him—and she had not said that she did, though Oberyn was content to take the sweetness of her embrace for its own answer—it was perhaps no great victory on his part. She had a loving heart, and she had been brutalized and starved of all tenderness for so long that any man who honored her as a man ought to do might have won her. 

But it was Oberyn who had stolen her from her tormentors, Oberyn who had watched over her, and even if he owed the gift of Sansa’s troth to nothing more than good luck and the grace of the gods, he was not so great a fool as to value it any less for all that. There would be time enough, in the years that remained to them, for Oberyn to teach her how much better she deserved—from him, from all the world.

“We should go to your brother,” said Sansa. She laughed. “I cannot feel my arm anymore.”

Oberyn laughed with her, and extricated her arm from where he had trapped it against his side. Gently, he rubbed the pins and needles from her limbs, then lifting his betrothed to her feet, and led her down the stairs, where the people who loved them were waiting.


	10. Epilogue

_One month later_

Sansa awoke to the sound of loud knocking at the door of her chamber. Her eyes flew open; it was still the early hours of the morning, not a hint of dawn peeking through her curtains

Sansa’s maid did not sleep in her chambers, but in a small room that adjoined them. Yet, as Sansa sat up in her bed, she heard no noise beyond Lyra’s door, no sound of anyone stirring. The knocking must be inaudible from the maid’s chamber, then.

A few months ago, Sansa would have been afraid to answer the door by herself, but not any longer. Time, and trust, had worked their small but crucial magic; Sansa could no longer find it in her to be afraid of anyone who lived in the palace, not even in the darkest corners of her darkest fears. They had always been kind to her here—the servants, the guards, the knights and nobles of Prince Doran’s household. But now that she was betrothed to Oberyn, and everyone knew it, her status had changed in some subtle way. In Dorne, it would seem, a betrothal was nearly as sacred as a marriage. And the Dornish were wasting no time extending all the fierce pride and affection they felt for Oberyn to include the maiden who was shortly to be his wife. 

All these thoughts tumbled through Sansa’s head in a fog of sleepiness, and it wasn’t until a second bout of knocking rattled her chamber door that her head cleared. Hastily—for anyone waking her at this hour of the morning must have important news to relate—Sansa pushed the covers back, toed her slippers onto her feet, and wrapped a dressing gown around her, before crossing the room and pressing her ear to the door.

“Who is it?” she said, waiting for a response before she unbarred the door.

“It is I,” said a familiar voice. “Please, open the door.”

 _Oberyn_ , Sansa thought, and struggled with the heavy bar until the latch came loose and the light from the torches in the corridor illuminated the darkness of her chambers.

“What’s wrong?” she said, as soon as she caught the look on Oberyn’s face. He looked—she wasn’t sure how he looked. Dismayed perhaps, or bewildered. It was so rare to see any sort of uncertainty in Oberyn’s features that Sansa couldn’t help feeling a flutter of answering anxiety.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said swiftly, reaching for her hand. “But there is news. A messenger arrived an hour ago. They have requested an audience with you.”

Sansa’s eyes widened. She found it difficult to imagine what sort of news would require her attention at this hour—and even more difficult to think what sort of news would make _Oberyn_ deem it worth disturbing Sansa at her rest. 

“I am ready to go wherever you will,” she said. “Or…ought I to dress properly first?”

Oberyn blinked, as though only just noticing that Sansa was wearing slippers and a dressing gown over her sleep shift. He smiled softly, and reached out to tug the edges of her dressing gown together, tying the belt in a neat bow at her waist. “You are perfectly presentable,” he said. “Come, you will not wish to keep this messenger waiting.”

Utterly bemused, but trusting in Oberyn’s judgement, Sansa took his arm and allowed him to lead her down the corridor. There were no guards stationed ahead of them, no sign at all that the palace had been roused, so whatever business this messenger was about, it must be secret. Again, Sansa found herself wondering what news from the outside world could possibly require her attention in the middle of the night. Nervously, she plucked at Oberyn’s sleeve.

“You’re certain it isn’t…bad news?” she asked him, thinking of Jon and trying to keep the tremor from her voice.

“No, sweetling,” said Oberyn, his voice strong and assured. “I am not certain what to make of it yet, but no. Nothing bad awaits you. I would not have awakened you from your slumber, if it were only to hear a tale of sorrow.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and leaned a little closer into Oberyn’s side. Oberyn responded by letting go of her hand and winding an arm around her back. It was not entirely proper to walk together thus, considering that any passing servant might see them, but Sansa saw no servants, any more than she had seen guards.

At last they turned a corridor, and Sansa realized that they were heading for Prince Doran’s solar. “Was the prince awakened as well?” she said, concerned. He had trouble enough sleeping through the night as it was, Sansa knew.

“It is only just past midnight, and Doran was not yet abed when the messenger arrived.” Oberyn paused when they reached the door and nodded to Areoh Hotah, who struck the ground with the butt of his spear and turned aside to admit them.

Inside Doran’s solar, Sansa saw the prince, seated in his rolling chair, facing a small, slight figure who kept to the corner of the room where the shadows were deepest. The figure was hooded and cloaked, and seemed to be burdened by all the luggage of a long journey—a knapsack and a chest of wood sat on the ground at their feet.

Doran turned his chair as Oberyn and Sansa entered. “Lady Sansa,” said Doran. “I apologize for disturbing you, but a most pressing matter—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the hooded figure stepped forward from the shadows. _Why, it is only a boy,_ Sansa thought to herself, and then the boy pulled the hood back.

“Sansa?” Arya whispered.

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She felt her knees turn to water beneath her. Only Oberyn’s tightening grip around her waist held her upright.

It was more than a year and a half since last since she had seen Arya. Her hair had been long then, her features still soft and rounded, like a child’s. This girl—and she was a girl, for all that her hair had been shorn to her chin and her clothes were dirty rags such as the lowest-born stable boy might have worn—was more than thin, she was scrawny, her features pinched with hunger and weariness.

And yet, it was Arya. There was not a doubt in Sansa’s mind. Before she knew what she was doing, Sansa was pushing Oberyn away, dashing across the room, and then Arya was running too. They met in the middle, an awkward tangle of limbs, Arya trying to wind her arms around Sansa’s waist, Sansa crushing her little sister hard against her chest. _She’s grown,_ Sansa thought, stunned, _but I’m taller still._ She sucked in a deep breath and found herself releasing a sob against Arya’s lank, unwashed hair. She smelled like the road, like stables, like weeks of travel and not a single bath in the mean time, but Sansa didn’t care.

 _She’s here,_ Sansa thought. _I thought she was dead, or the Bolton’s prisoner, but she’s here, I’m holding her, it’s really her._

It was Arya who stepped away first—which was probably for the best, because Sansa didn’t think she could ever have been the first to let go. They kept hold of each other’s arms, though, and when Sansa looked down into Arya’s face, she saw that her sister was grinning up at her as Sansa had never seen her grin before.

“How?” was all that Sansa could think to say. _How did you escape? How did you survive? How did you find me here, so far away from the North and everything familiar?_ She felt the tears continue to trickle down her face, but she paid them no mind. There were tears in Arya’s eyes too, and that was new as well. Sansa couldn’t remember ever seeing Arya cry, not since she was a tiny girl.

“I heard that you were in Dorne,” said Arya. Her voice was deeper, rougher than Sansa remembered it. Perhaps it was because she was older now, or perhaps it was habit—it was obvious that Arya had been traveling in disguise as a boy. “Everyone heard about that. So I stowed away on a ship headed for Planky Town, and then I stole a mule.”

“Of course you did,” Sansa said, somehow laughing and crying at the same time. “But how…”

Arya didn’t look like the daughter of the Lord Paramount of the North, and that was putting it mildly. She looked like an orphan without family, money, or connections. Sansa had difficulty imagining the guards stationed at the gates of the outer ward admitting her to the palace in the middle of the night, whatever she claimed to be.

Arya seemed to read her thoughts, however. “I told the palace guards I was a messenger come with news about Lady Stark’s sister,” she said, still grinning, a little smugly now. “I was in the Riverlands, see, and one day we met a company on the road. Dornishmen. They were asking for news about me. They said that the Prince of Dorne had taken you as his ward and was willing to pay a ransom to anyone who would bring me to Sunspear.”

“Then why did you not go with them?” Sansa cried, seized by the old, familiar urge to shake Arya until her teeth rattled. “Anything might have happened to you on the road!”

Arya looked at her like she was stupid, and that too was very familiar. “The Lannisters have been looking for me since…ever since I escaped from King’s Landing. It might have been a trick. And even if it wasn’t a trick, everyone said that the Red Viper had _kidnapped_ you. I thought you were a prisoner here.”

Arya darted a narrow-eyed look just past Sansa’s shoulder, and it was only then that Sansa remembered that she and Arya weren’t alone in the room. She turned slightly, and saw that Oberyn was standing next to his brother’s chair, leaning against Doran’s desk, his arms folded across his chest. His mouth was unsmiling, but his eyes were crinkled in an expression that Sansa recognized as amusement.

“It is true, I confess,” Oberyn said. “Your sister is no prisoner, but I _did_ steal her away from King’s Landing. Do you plan to skewer me with that handsome Braavosi blade I see at your hip? Your hand keeps stealing towards it in a most threatening manner.”

Arya did not frown. Her face was, rather, frighteningly blank. “I will if I have to,” she said, her voice expressionless.

“Don’t you dare,” said Sansa, exasperated. “Arya, this is Prince Oberyn. My…my betrothed. We’re to be married within the month, and if you hurt him I will be very cross.”

Arya looked at her again, her face wrinkled in confusion. “So…you _want_ to marry him?”

Even after all this time, Sansa could not help blushing. “I do,” she said quietly. “Very much.” She took a deep breath, remembering her courtesies, belated though they were. “My prince, may I present my younger sister, Lady Arya of House Stark. Arya, this is Doran, ruling prince of Dorne, and his younger brother, Prince Oberyn. They freed me from the Lannisters, and brought me to their home, where they have cared for me and kept me safe ever since. When…when I thought I had no family left, they became my family. You must look upon them as your own brothers now.”

Arya’s expression turned mulish. “We _have_ a brother,” she said.

“I know,” said Sansa hastily. “I wrote to Jon shortly after I arrived here, by Prince Doran’s leave. I’m hopeful that he will reply soon. It is a long journey North, for a raven.”

Something soft and hopeful entered Arya’s eyes, and for a second she looked like the child Sansa remembered. Then, in a flash, her guard was up again, though she looked cocky rather than closed off.

“All right, then,” she said. “Seeing we’re all family now—I brought a present with me.”

“A present,” said Sansa, dubiously. 

“It was either going to be a present or a ransom,” said Arya. “If you _were_ being held prisoner, I thought I should have something to offer in exchange for you.”

“Is it gold you carry in that chest?” said Oberyn, apparently unable to resist the urge to tease her. Sansa couldn’t quite blame him; Arya brought that out in people. “It is a rather small chest. If my brother were holding Lady Sansa for ransom, he might find such a paltry offering unequal to her great worth.”

Arya stared at Oberyn for a long moment. She didn’t look smug, or cocky, or amused now. _She’s grown up,_ Sansa thought, with a sinking heart. It was only natural that she had—so much time had passed since last they’d seen each other, and Sansa herself had changed in ways that even she barely understood. But the Arya who had been living in her imagination was the same Arya who used to chase cats around the Red Keep, and stand for hours at the top of the stairs, balancing on one foot.

Arya transferred her gaze to Prince Doran. Doran had not said a word since Arya pulled her hood back, and Sansa had been so distracted that she’d barely noticed his silence. She looked at him now, and saw that his eyes wore a soft look, as though all the talk, all the banter, even the veiled threats between Arya and Oberyn had passed beneath his notice. He looked, Sansa thought, like nothing more than a man fondly witnessing a reunion between two sisters who had each thought each other lost for good. 

Had Arya not been in the room, Sansa would have gone to him, kissed his brow. _He is the reason Arya came back to me,_ she thought, her heart swelling with affection. It was Doran who had sent the Dornish company into the Riverlands, searching for Arya; if he had not done so, who was to say whether Arya would ever had stowed aboard that ship?

Silently, Arya heaved the chest into her arms. It was heavier than it looked, apparently. She approached Prince Doran—and then, to Sansa’s shock, she went to one knee. The gallant effect was somewhat lessened by the fact that she had to balance the casket awkwardly on that same knee, but considering that Arya had never had much use for courtesies or formalities, it was a striking image.

“Prince Doran,” she said. “This is for you. I…I heard that it was something you greatly desired.”

Doran’s soft look sharpened suddenly, and his eyes grew very black. Oberyn stirred at his side, his own gaze arrested by the wooden box.

A long moment passed, and then Doran waved his hand. Arya opened the box. Sansa, standing behind Arya, could not see what was inside, but the sudden, deathly silence that filled the room was more telling than a scream, or a muttered oath. 

Doran took the box out of Arya’s hands, but his arms trembled, and Oberyn took it in turn, holding it at waist level so they could both see inside. A strong smell of tar and decay filled the room, and Sansa covered her nose with her hand.

“What is this?” said Doran. His voice was soft—so soft that it was difficult to hear—and his hands were trembling as if he’d been taken with a sudden palsy.

“It’s the head of Gregor Clegane,” said Arya, sounding subdued, almost uncomfortable. “The one they called the Mountain.” 

Sansa reached behind her blindly, groping for something to brace herself again. Across the room, the two princes stood like statues of stone. By instinct, Sansa looked at Oberyn. He scarcely seemed to be breathing. 

“I was his prisoner at Harrenhal.” Arya was still kneeling at Doran’s feet. “He was…the things he did…he _needed_ to be killed.” The utter absence of all emotion in her voice was worse, somehow, than if she’d trembled, or cried. “I had a friend. He owed me a debt. I’d saved his life, so he offered to give me a life in return. All I had to do was say the name.” Arya swallowed. “There were others I thought of…some of them almost as bad as the Mountain. But…my friend was the one who told me that there were Dornishmen looking for me. Then he told me what the Mountain did to your sister.” Arya looked down at the stinking, blackened thing in the box. “So I brought him to you.”

Sansa felt faint. It was the smell, she thought, or maybe it was the look on her little sister’s face. _The last time I saw you, you were chasing cats, but you never harmed them, only let them go._

She looked at Oberyn, who did not look much like a statue anymore. Doran’s hands had ceased shaking, but Oberyn was trembling head to foot, and his features were contorted, as though he could not make up his mind whether to scream or cry. Sansa wanted to go to him, but she was afraid. She wanted to touch Arya on the shoulder, but she was afraid of that too.

Not knowing what else to do, Sansa looked at Doran, only to find that his eyes were already fixed upon her. It made no sense; before him was the head of the man who had raped and murdered his own sister, and at his feet knelt the girl who had brought him the vengeance he had been awaiting seventeen years. Yet it was Sansa who held his attention, as though she, not Arya, were the author of this scene.

“Brother,” Doran murmured, and Oberyn tore his eyes from the box long enough to look at Doran, to see where Doran was looking. Suddenly, Oberyn was striding across the room, and before Sansa could say a word he had swept her into his arms. _No,_ she thought, _I’m alright, it’s you I worry for, you and Doran, and my sister, my little sister…_ But then she felt the tremors wracking Oberyn’s shoulders, and it dawned on her, suddenly, that Doran had sent Oberyn to her as much for Oberyn’s sake as for hers.

All was still and quiet in the room for a long moment after that—or perhaps it was only that Sansa couldn’t hear anything with her face tucked into Oberyn’s shoulder. When at last Oberyn’s grip on her began to loosen, Sansa dabbed at her face with her sleeve and faced out again. 

The box containing the head of Gregor Clegane was sealed once more. Areoh Hotah had entered the room, and Sansa watched as Doran committed it into the captain’s keeping. She wasn’t sure whether Hotah knew what he was carrying; he was difficult to read at the best of times. But he bore it before him like it contained some priceless treasure.

Arya, meanwhile, had got to her feet again, and was standing a foot or so from Doran’s chair, looking suddenly out of place and ill at ease. She’d been traveling for months, Sansa realized, carrying her macabre prize with her. She was starved and dirty, she’d been a prisoner, she’d had to defend herself against who knew what sort of men. And she’d killed someone. Maybe more than one person, Sansa thought, remembering how her sister’s hand had come to rest on the hilt of her sword, as though the action was natural, as though she was used to drawing it.

 _She’s not yet two-and-ten,_ Sansa found herself thinking, a prayer or plea to whichever gods were listening. _Why did she have to suffer so? Why Bran, and Rickon, and Mother and Robb? Why Father?_

“Lady Arya.” Doran’s voice was hoarse. “I and all my House owe you a very great debt. You would have been welcome in Sunspear for the sake of your sister, who is much loved by all of us. Now I say to you: Dorne is your home, for now and forever. Even if someday you should return to the North, Dorne will always be willing to welcome you back as if you were our own daughter.”

“Oh.” Arya blinked at him a few times. “I don’t need…I mean…” she glanced at Sansa, and Sansa, out of old habit, gave her a meaningful glare. “Thank you, my lord. My Prince.” Arya glanced at Sansa again, and this time it wasn’t a question. “If it’s all right with you—since Sansa wants to stay here, and marry Prince Oberyn and everything—I’d like to stay with her. At least for awhile.”

Oberyn stepped forward, then, surprising Sansa. “Lady Arya. Your sister tells me that you are fonder of blade work than of embroidering cushions and other such ladylike graces.”

“Yes,” said Arya, and Sansa nearly wept to hear the wariness in her voice, because that—that was the Arya of old, the nine-year old her father’s men had dubbed ‘Arya Underfoot’.

“You are eleven?” Oberyn said. Arya nodded. “Good. Then I make you this offer: stay in Sunspear. Squire for a knight of my choosing for at least three years. If you perform your duties satisfactorily, I will with my own hands dub you the first lady knight in all of Westeros. You will stand vigil in the sept and be anointed with seven oils. Men shall call you ‘ser’ if that is your wish, or else you will teach the world that a lady may be a knight as well as the daughter of a great house.”

Since Arya was born, Sansa had never seen such a look on her sister’s face. “Do you mean it,” she said, as though she feared he was in jest.

“I swear it, on sun and spear and Seven.”

Arya looked at Sansa, and this time Sansa knew exactly what she was thinking. _What about Mother, what about Father, what would they think?_

“Father would be so proud of you,” said Sansa hoarsely. “And Mother too, even if it took a bit longer for her to adjust to the idea of it.”

“Does he mean it, Sansa?” Arya’s voice was pitched low, so as not to insult Oberyn. After all, he had sworn. Oberyn could still hear her, no doubt, but he pretended not to.

“He has never yet broken a promise to me, nor failed to keep his word,” she told Arya, because it was nothing but the truth.

A genuinely childlike expression came into Arya’s eyes. Suddenly, it was as if Sansa could see into her sister’s heart, feel all the shocks, all the blows, all the _hurt_ she had endured—not just to her body, but to her soul. She had seen the worst of men, maybe even more so than Sansa. But even so, she was _Arya_ still, their father’s truest daughter. She still believed in things like justice, and honor.

She was a little short to pull off a suit of armor, but who cared; Sansa knew in her heart that Arya would make the best sort of knight, the kind that came straight out of the tales.

“I’ll do it.” Arya spun around to gaze up at Oberyn. “I want to be a squire, and a knight some day.”

Oberyn smiled down at her fleetingly, then arranged his features into an expression of appropriate gravity. “Swear me your trust and fidelity, and it will be so.”

“I swear it. I mean, I swear my trust and fidelity. Prince Oberyn.”

“Hmm. You should have been kneeling just then, but perhaps you have had enough exertion for one day.” Oberyn’s smile returned, and he clasped Arya’s shoulder, before nudging her back towards Sansa. “Go. Be with your sister for now.”

Sansa took her cue to seize Arya’s hand and pull her aside. “I’m so tired,” she said softly, “but there are so many things I want to ask you, I don’t know how I could sleep.”

Arya snorted. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you. I haven’t slept in three days. Just the _sight_ of a bed, and I’ll start snoring.”

Sansa noticed when Oberyn fell into step behind them, escorting them safely back to her rooms without intruding on their quiet, whispered conversation. Sansa felt as if she were made of water, as if she were a wellspring that was overflowing. There was so much love in her just then—it burbled over naturally, from Arya, to Doran, and finally to Oberyn. 

Sansa had loved him for a long time, but it was a strong, sturdy almost practical love, built stone by stone over time. This was an effusive, joyous love that bubbled up from streams and rivers inside her that she had long since believed dammed up and dry. 

She let Arya enter her chambers first. Then Sansa looked over her shoulder at Oberyn, who was standing a few yards back. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Oberyn stared at her as though she’d said something mad. Then he strode towards her, covering the distance between them in two paces. Before Sansa knew what was happening, he’d taken her face between his hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. It was the first time he’d ever done so; the gesture was strangely chaste and possessive at the exact same time.

“You,” he said, stroking the backs of his knuckles down the length of her loose, unbraided hair, “are the best thing that has happened to me in many, many years. And now you have your sister again. I thank the gods, for they gave you what I could not—a gift as great as you are good.”

Sansa could do nothing but stand there and blink the tears away. Oberyn kissed her again, this time on her forehead. Then he walked away, swiftly, as though it cost him something to do it. _Soon,_ Sansa thought, _I will not have to bid him farewell at day’s end._

Sansa turned around to see Arya standing in the doorway, making a disgusted face. “He’s older than _Father,_ ” she complained.

Sansa burst into laughter. “I have missed you, Horseface,” she said, and by the time the door closed behind them both, Arya was laughing too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading my first fic in this fandom. You can find me on Tumblr at branwyn-says, or at my blog, www.languageandlight.com


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...had no intention of ever posting this at first. I don't write explicit content often, and the epilogue with Arya was a much better ending for the story.But every time I read a story where Sansa is afraid of her wedding night with Oberyn, I find myself thinking "there is an obvious solution to that", so since I'd never read it done this way before, I decided to write it myself. There are no new plot developments in this, just Oberyn, Sansa, and Ellaria being themselves and then having sex. If you tend to skim sex scenes, it's mostly dialogue for the first half of the story. This technically takes place before Arya arrives in Dorne.

_Sansa_

A drop of water landed on Sansa’s hand—a single drop of condensation that had rolled down the jug of iced wine with which the cupbearer was refilling her goblet. 

Sansa made to dab the water away with her napkin, but before she had the chance, the cupbearer was there, grabbing for the towel at his waist.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, and carefully wiped the moisture away. He stroked at her skin with the cloth, and continued stroking, long after her wrist was dry. Confused, Sansa looked at him, and found that his eyes lingered on hers. His fingers were gripping her wrist just a little too tightly for propriety. 

Uncomfortable, and uncertain what to make of his attentions, Sansa pulled her wrist away from his grip. “Thank you,” she said. “That will do.”

The cupbearer was a handsome boy who looked to be only three or four years older than her. Yet, despite Sansa’s words of dismissal, he did not immediately remove himself. Instead, he arched an eyebrow at her, and seemed to be waiting for a response.

Uncertain how to proceed, Sansa looked down the table. Ellaria sat next to her, and Oberyn sat next to Ellaria. Their heads were bent together, a smile on Oberyn’s lips as he brushed Ellaria’s lower lip with his thumb. 

But Oberyn was quick, as always, to notice when Sansa was in dismay. Only a moment later he glanced in Sansa’s direction, as if by reflex, then looked frowningly from Sansa to the boy hovering at her shoulder.

Sansa knew the instant Oberyn had caught the cupbearer’s attention, because the boy bowed with some hasty, incoherent words of apology, and fled the table. Sansa took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on her plate. Her appetite was gone, her stomach stirring uneasily. 

Oberyn reached across the table for her, tugging at her sleeve until her hand was resting in Ellaria’s lap. There, he twined their fingers together.

“I apologize, my love,” Oberyn said gently. “That will not happen again.”

Sansa turned wide eyes on her betrothed and his paramour. “I’m not certain what _did_ happen,” she admitted. 

Sansa’s betrothal to Oberyn had been announced publicly only three days before, and it was well known that they were to be married within the fortnight. Prior to the announcement, when Sansa had been nothing more than an heiress exiled in a strange land, living on Doran’s charity, his servants and knights and guards had treated her with the utmost delicacy—never making advances, never taking liberties. The cupbearer’s lingering touch was all the more confusing for that. Surely, if he was minded to flirt with her, he should have done so prior to her betrothal, not after?

“It was a…” Ellaria glanced at Oberyn. “A misunderstanding, my sweet. Nothing more.”

Sansa frowned. “What manner of misunderstanding? Did I—was I insufficiently guarded?”

She had been warned often enough, by her mother and her septa, that men were apt to read much in a woman’s glances and gestures, however innocently she intended them. And in Dorne, where assignations outside of marriage were not frowned upon, she had been especially fearful of sending the wrong message, lest she find herself in an awkward, or frightening, position.

“No one could see aught than chastity in your every look and deed,” said Oberyn roughly. “You are not to blame for inflaming the passions of every man who beholds you.”

Sansa, appalled, sat straight up in her chair. She looked left and right, no longer certain what to do with her hands or her face.

“Oberyn, be still, you are frightening her.” 

Oberyn sighed, chastened, as Ellaria leaned across the table to where Doran sat. Though Sansa could not hear what she was saying, it was clear that Ellaria was making her excuses. Sansa’s too, it seemed, because when Ellaria rose, so did all the men of the table, and no one blinked when Ellaria drew Sansa up from her seat and tucked their arms together, leading her out of the banquet hall.

“Will Oberyn not join us?” said Sansa. 

Sansa rarely went anywhere these days without Oberyn hovering somewhere in the background—not that she minded—and when Oberyn was not with Sansa, he was inevitably with Ellaria. It seemed strange that he would suffer the both of them to depart his company without falling into step behind them.

“He will join us soon enough,” said Ellaria lightly. “But it is past time that you and I took time for ourselves. Your education as a future princess of Dorne has been neglected. You should not flounder in ignorance of our customs when a little frank conversation between women is all that is needed to set you to rights.”

Sansa flushed. She didn’t think she was _quite_ as ignorant as Ellaria seemed to be suggesting. She knew well enough that, in Dorne, marriages amongst the highborn were sealed with contracts, not maidenheads, and as such it mattered little to most prospective husbands whether their wives had lain with other men before coming to the marriage bed. 

Sansa was not quite certain whether couples were expected to keep faith with one another _after_ their marriage, or whether that was a matter that each couple settled between themselves, according to their preferences. Oberyn, she knew well, bedded with anyone who took his fancy, and Sansa had found that she did not mind this as much as she thought that she would, since he always had time for her when she needed him, no matter how many lovers he had trailing after him. And Ellaria, certainly wasn’t going to simply disappear after Sansa and Oberyn were wed. In truth, the idea that Ellaria _might_ leave them made Sansa feel breathless and panicked. Yet she knew that such matters were not treated so casually in every Dornish marriage. Oberyn had killed a man in a duel when he was only sixteen because he was discovered abed with another man’s paramour. 

Sansa understood that no insult had been intended, either to her or to Oberyn, when the cupbearer made his interest known at dinner. But she still did not know how she was meant to…deflect such interest. Sansa had no interest in taking lovers. She trusted Oberyn, knew that he would do everything in his power to make their bedding as painless for her as possible, but that did not mean…the so-called pleasures of bedding were still as mysterious to Sansa as they had ever been, and Sansa could not imagine subjecting herself to such an ordeal at the hands of any man save the one she trusted above all others. No matter how unpleasant the act itself might be, the knowledge that Oberyn would be there afterwards, waiting to hold her and comfort her, drew much of the terror from the prospect.

All these thought swirled busily in Sansa’s head as Ellaria ushered her away from the banquet hall, into her rooms, and set about making a comfortable refuge for the two of them. She sent the maids to fetch wine and a platter of the sweets they had missed out on by leaving the banquet early. After her bower had been supplied with every comfort, Ellaria draped herself bonelessly across the enormous sofa at the foot of her bed and reached a hand to Sansa, drawing her down beside her. 

Awkwardly, but not unwillingly, Sansa lay down next to Ellaria, nestled against her back. Ellaria began to brush the hair away from Sansa’s face, and Sansa felt herself growing warm and comfortable under her touch, the chill of the cupbearer’s hand washed away, a memory soon to be forgotten.

“Do we seem barbarians to you, my lady of the North, with all our wanton ways?” said Ellaria, her tone teasing.

“No, of course not.” Sansa flushed. “It is only…I do not wish to err.”

“There is little danger of that,” said Ellaria. “The attentions you have received are not meant to dishonor you. They are no reflection on your conduct.”

“I do understand,” said Sansa hastily. She did not want Ellaria to think that she judged the Dornish for their customs; she was only dismayed by the knowledge that, when it came to such matters, none of the careful courtesies she had learned at her septa’s knee would be of much use to her.

“You understand in part, I think.” Ellaria’s fingers twined with hers, and she rested their joined hands on Sansa’s hip. “The manner in which you came to us…your former marriage, and the steps that had to be taken to dissolve your union with Lord Tyrion…word of it spread quickly through the court. Everyone knows that you are a maid.”

“I should hope so,” Sansa could not help but sniff.

Ellaria laughed. “Few girls here are maidens by the time they are betrothed. Maids in Dorne are encouraged to…explore. To discover what they like, what they don’t like. It is considered fitting, even wise, for a maid to thus prepare herself for womanhood. The better she is at seeking her own pleasure in the marriage bed, the more likely she is to produce heirs.”

“I see.” Sansa felt cold suddenly, head to foot. “Am…will I be seen as failing in my duty if I am still a maid when I am married?”

“No, my love, do not misunderstand me. No one shall reproach you for that.” Ellaria laughed. “Truly, though Oberyn will never admit it, he is excited to think that he will be your first. But it will not displease him, or anyone else, if you take a lover or two, for your own amusement.”

Sansa’s hand clutched at her throat. _A lover or two…_ Faces swam to the surface of her memory: Joffrey, Tyrion, Littlefinger, even Sandor. Any of those men might have taken her, given the slightest hint of willingness on her part. And Joffrey probably would not have waited much longer for her to show willingness, had Oberyn not rescued her from King’s Landing when he did. 

She had imagined coupling with such men often enough—in her nightmares, mostly—but she did not think that this would help to prepare her for marriage to a man who was unlike them in every respect.

Ellaria, nestled so closely against her, seemed to feel the tension that thrummed through her body. 

“You are as pure as the Maiden herself,” Ellaria said, her voice soothing. “But you have known so little of a maiden’s true innocence, Sansa. Most girls of your age feel their blood rise soon after they have flowered. They lie awake in their bowers, dreaming of the lovers they would summon to their beds. They revel in fantasies of sweet touches, and their bodies thrill in response.” Ellaria stroked a hand over Sansa’s hair, trailing fingers over her shoulder. “But you, my sweet…you never dreamed such dreams, did you? When you lay in your bed at night, it was only fear and pain you thought of.”

There was nothing that Sansa could say in reply, for Ellaria had spoken only the truth. It was not a truth that Sansa had ever shared with her before; Sansa wondered whether Oberyn had told her about Joffrey’s threats, or whether Ellaria just _knew_ somehow.

“When first you came to us, you were a shy and frightened maid, more child than woman,” Ellaria continued. “And the men and women of Doran’s court watched Oberyn to see how they should approach you. When they saw how careful he was of you, how delicate he was of your innocence, they responded in kind. But now that Oberyn has betrothed you, you have become a woman in their eyes. And…let us say, they would not have you go to your marriage bed unprepared. Not if you do not wish.”

Sansa was just as glad that she was facing away from Ellaria, so the older woman could not see her face. “So…so the cupbearer…”

“He was much too forward,” said Ellaria, irritated. “Once you had dismissed him, he should have taken himself off forthwith. Oberyn will have words with him, I assure you.”

It was on the tip of Sansa’s tongue to speak in the cupbearer’s defense—her years in King’s Landing were not so far behind her that she did not still fear the fate that might befall a servant who had displeased his masters. But Ellaria had told her, time and again, that servants were not beaten in Dorne, so Sansa bade herself hold her tongue. She did, however, nestle closer to Ellaria, surprising even herself when she caught Ellaria’s soft hand and pressed it to her cheek. Ellaria’s arm tightened around her in response.

“You may well find that over the next few weeks any number of handsome young knights and pretty handmaidens send inviting looks your way,” Ellaria said confidingly. “Some may invite you openly, though they should do so in deference to your rank. If any man seeks to demean or diminish you, you must tell us straightaway. I do not think that even I could keep the blood off Oberyn’s hands if you were to be hurt.”

All of a sudden, Sansa was imagining something impossible. She was imagining that Oberyn had found her in that little room above the winesink where Petyr Baelish had stroked her hair, trailed his fingers down her chest. In this imagining, Oberyn seized Petyr at once and cast him out of the room into the waiting arms of his guards. He then reached for her, his hands hot against her skin as he pressed furious kisses to her face and mouth, nuzzling into her hair and pressing his body against hers until all memory of Petyr’s touch was wiped clean.

Perhaps _that_ was the sort of dreaming Ellaria meant, though Sansa could never in a million years bring herself to speak of it.

“Is it…” Sansa fumbled for the words. “Is it only for duty that they would…offer themselves to me thus?”

“Duty?” said Ellaria, disbelievingly.

She rolled, suddenly, and before Sansa knew it, they were lying face to face, scarcely any distance between their bodies. Ellaria’s breath stirred the hair that fell across Sansa’s face. Their breasts were pressed together, the layers of thin silk between them like no barrier at all. Tremors raced through Sansa body until she could scarcely remember what she had meant to say.

“Yes, duty.” Sansa found it hard to avert her eyes when Ellaria’s face was so close to hers. “Perhaps...perhaps they think that their prince deserves better than some green, untutored maid for a wife. Perhaps they seek to serve him by…by imparting to me the…the bed skills that a Dornish bride should know.”

Ellaria’s laughter was light and long, but there was no hint of mockery in it. 

“I must see about fitting your rooms with a looking glass of better quality,” she said. “No, my love, it is not for duty that they would seek admittance to your bed. You were fair as the day when first you came to us, but ever since our great aurochs of a prince finally got around to claiming you, you have seemed lit from within, like a glass sept filled with candlelight. I assure you—it is _your_ favor they seek, not his.”

“Oh.” Sansa whispered, keeping her head down. “But what if I don’t want any of them?”

Ellaria’s brow creased. “I have said you may refuse them, but…ah. You would rather they did not offer?”

“I’ve…I’ve had _offers_ before,” she mumbled. 

“No, my love,” said Ellaria softly. “You have not. You have had only violence and cruelty.” She ran the back of her hand across Sansa’s cheek. “Tell me truly. Do you fear bedding Oberyn?”

“I…I am not afraid of Oberyn,” Sansa said, remembering long ago when the words that always came tumbling out of her mouth were _I am loyal to King Joffrey._

“That is not what I asked.” Ellaria shifted again, and shifted Sansa with her. Now Sansa was lying on her back, and Ellaria was perched on top of her, the better to look into Sansa’s face. “Are you afraid of lying underneath him, like this? Of spreading your legs for—”

“Yes.” Sansa covered her face with her hands. “I am afraid of that. Of all of it. But…I am less afraid than I would be with any other man. I know he won’t hurt me more than he has to, and that he…he will be kind, after.”

Ellaria sighed, loud and long, and then she tucked her face into Sansa’s neck. “Oberyn will be beside himself if he hurts you,” she murmured into Sansa’s hair. 

Sansa did not know what to say, except to give Ellaria her assurances. “If the pain is not _too_ great, I can be quiet,” she promised. “I can be good.” 

“Oh, Sansa.” Ellaria looked into her face for a long moment, then pressed their foreheads together. “My sweet girl. I cannot bear this.”

“Bear what?” said Sansa softly.

“I know too well why you would turn aside strangers,” she breathed. “Strange men especially. But…you and I are not strangers. And truly, I believe that I care for you almost as much as Oberyn does. Do you not care a little for me also?”

“Ellaria…” Sansa was a maid, but she was not entirely ignorant. She knew what Ellaria was suggesting, and the idea thrilled her with its strangeness. Unacquainted as she was of such matters, she would be entirely at Ellaria’s mercy—but no less so than she would be at Oberyn’s. 

“Yes,” she whispered. “I care for you very much.”

Ellaria kissed her fiercely then, but the kiss was over quickly, almost before Sansa realized it had happened. 

“Why not give your maidenhead to me, then?” she whispered coaxingly in Sansa’s ear. “There will no pain. I will see to it that you feel nothing but pleasure.”

Sansa knew that her skin was flushed from her naval to her hairline, but her blood was beginning to sing, and she was so, so curious suddenly. Every nightmare she had ever had of being bedded began with a man pushing her down against a mattress and ended with a dagger in her belly. But here, with Ellaria…for all that she was holding Sansa down, Sansa felt safe, not trapped, thrillingly vulnerable to all that Ellaria might wish to do to her.

“Oberyn will not mind?” she said faintly.

“He will not mind in the least, if it is what you want.”

Sansa held her breath for a long time before releasing it in a sigh. “Yes,” she whispered. “It is what I want.”

Ellaria grinned at her, a wicked flash of teeth that had Sansa’s heart racing. But then her mouth was sealing itself to Sansa’s, her hands sliding up the silken sides of Sansa’s gown to cup her breasts. At that, Sansa’s heart beat even faster—but Sansa found that she did not mind.

*

_Oberyn_

He was careful to be quiet when he opened the door of Ellaria’s chambers, and neither of the women in the bed seemed to hear it. Ellaria was sitting with her back against the headboard, and Sansa sat between her legs, leaning back against Ellaria’s chest, her whole body soft, limp, and pliant under Ellaria’s ministrations.

In an instant, all thought was driven from Oberyn’s head. Having sent the cupbearer off with his ears burning, he had come to Ellaria’s rooms to see how Sansa fared. He had expected tears, or quiet, nervous smiles—but not this. Nothing like this.

Ellaria was whispering into Sansa’s ear, pinching lightly at the nipple of one breast, as her fingers stroked gently between Sansa’s legs. Sansa’s head fell back onto Ellaria’s shoulder, and it was plain to look at her that there wasn’t a single thought in her head, that all the worry and apprehension that normally troubled her eyes had melted away under Ellaria’s soft, clever touches.

He should leave, he knew. This was nothing to do with him. Never mind that he had often imagined what his paramour and his betrothed would look like, joined thus. Never mind the staggering arousal he felt upon witnessing the fantasy come to life. This was not a spectacle arranged for his benefit. Sansa had never been intimate in this way with anyone before. If she had chosen Ellaria to be her teacher, it did not follow that he was welcome, simply because Ellaria shared _his_ bed. To assume otherwise, to grasp at the bounty spread before him just because he could, would be rudeness at best, a violation at worst.

He needed to leave.

Yet the seconds passed, one by one, and Oberyn’s legs remained frozen beneath him. The longer he stood here, the worse his guilt would be later—yet whatever sense he had ever possessed seemed suddenly to have deserted him.

“Sansa.” Ellaria’s voice, quiet and amused, made Oberyn start like a spooked horse. “Our prince has finally appeared. I do not think he knows what to do with himself.”

Oberyn found himself blushing as, slowly, Sansa turned her head to look at him. Her eyes, heavy-lidded, blinked just once. A tiny, shy smile appeared on her lips. Was it a smile of welcome? He dared not presume. He scarcely dared hope.

“What are you thinking, my love?” said Ellaria. There was a teasing light in her eyes. “Such reticence is most unlike you.”

“I—do not wish to intrude,” he said, his mouth dry.

“Hmm.” Ellaria touched Sansa’s cheek. “What do you say, Sansa? Is our prince allowed to watch?”

Oberyn tensed, half expecting to watch as Sansa’s dreamy, languid expression grew suddenly brittle with fear. Instead, she shut her eyes, and let her head rest on Ellaria’s shoulder once more.

“A prince may do whatever he pleases,” she said. 

The words themselves were identical to every submissive, courtly courtesy she had once held up like a shield to guard herself from him. Such words had once angered him, because he knew that deference had been beaten into with cruel blows.

Yet there was nothing of courtesy in the lewd way she continued to lie there with her legs spread for Ellaria. He saw no distance in her expression, heard no guardedness in her voice. 

It had shamed Oberyn, almost, that he could look on Sansa and feel desire for her, when he knew how much she feared men, when he remembered the fate he had saved her from in King’s Landing. Contrary to what he knew everyone assumed, he had been dreading their wedding night nearly as much as he assumed Sansa was. If she pulled away from him, he was afraid he would not be able to hide his disappointment; if she desired to consummate their marriage, he feared he would not be able to conquer her nervousness long enough to give her any pleasure.

But seeing her thus, limp and flushed with pleasure, wet already for the sake of Ellaria…she had been right all along. He had known for some time that Ellaria had her own ideas about how to soothe Sansa in her marriage bed, but Oberyn had never thought Sansa would agree to it. 

_It is you men and your thrusting cocks she is frightened of,_ Ellaria had said, not long ago. _I would wager that with my fingers and my mouth I could relieve her of that pesky maidenhood and she would be none the wiser.”_

Oberyn hadn’t precisely given Ellaria his permission—not that she needed it—but nor had he expected her to act upon impulse without giving him some kind of warning.

Looking at his wife-to-be, lying with her spread ankles twined with those of his paramour, Oberyn found life returning to his body. _A prince may do whatever he pleases,_ he heard Sansa’s soft voice whispering in his head.

“Have you tasted her yet, my love?” said Oberyn, to Ellaria.

Ellaria smiled at him. “No. I left that for you.”

Oberyn groaned, without quite meaning to, and came around the bed to kiss Sansa. He had not intended to take her too deep, but she opened her mouth wide for him, and he immediately plunged his tongue past her teeth.

“My sweet girl,” he said, when he had pulled back far enough to look Sansa in the eyes. “Will you trust me?” 

Her foggy eyes widened, but she nodded.

Oberyn walked around to the end of the bed and brushed Ellaria’s fingers gently away from Sansa’s pearl. “Inside her,” he whispered, and Ellaria’s eyes grew dark. 

The cry Sansa made when Ellaria penetrated her for the first time were quickly overpowered by her sobs as Oberyn began to lick her cunt. He had barely begun when she climaxed. Oberyn lifted his face to catch Ellaria’s eye. 

“Was that her first time?” he said.

“Yes, it was,” said Ellaria fondly. “But the first one is never very good. Just a spasm. She needs more.”

“Aye, said Oberyn, and fell back to his work.

*

Afterwards, Sansa lay in Oberyn’s arms, utterly pliant as Oberyn kissed the tears away from her face. She was not hurt, and Oberyn was not too worried. He had guessed that she would weep after, if only for relief. Ellaria traced soft lines down Sansa’s arms, while Oberyn brushed his fingertips over her back, tracing her scars. 

Sansa was his wife now. A betrothal, sealed by a bedding, were all that was needed for them to be considered joined in the eyes of gods and men. The ordeal with the septons was just an excuse for the feast afterwards. 

Months ago—the day that Doran expelled Ser Arys Oakheart from Sunspear—Oberyn had promised himself that, when Sansa was his wife, nothing in this world would stop him from exacting a payment in blood for every line of silver that lay etched into her pale skin.

“Sansa.” Oberyn sighed into her hair. “My princess.”

“Hmmph,” said Ellaria. “ _Our_ princess. After all, we bedded her together.”

“That is true. What do you think, Sansa? Will you have us both?”

But Sansa, Oberyn saw then, was fast asleep. She had never slept easily, Oberyn knew; on a normal night, the slightest noise or movement waked her, and he had often encountered her wandering the corridors at the first break of dawn. But here, now, she did not stir, even when he slipped out her and rolled onto his side, molding his body to the shape of hers.

“If she doesn’t run from us when wakes,” said Ellaria, “I think we can assume the answer is yes.”

“Will she run, do you think?” Oberyn looked at Ellaria, alarmed.

Ellaria laughed at him. “No,” she said. “I think we have snared her neatly. Our pretty prize.”

Oberyn looked down at Sansa. “I sometimes think stealing her is the deed I will be remembered for, when all who have known me are dead.”

“Oh, yes, the songs they will sing about you.” Ellaria smirked.

 _I always meant to give your songs back to you,_ Oberyn thought, tucking Sansa’s head under his chin and closing his eyes.


End file.
